


An Untimely Frost

by cynical21



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton
Genre: F/M, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-12 02:34:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 406,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2092398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynical21/pseuds/cynical21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aftermath of tragedy, when Qui-Gon cannot forgive Obi-Wan, and the Jedi must deal with the possibility of losing him completely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Celebration

**Author's Note:**

> After a recent scare on the archive where all my work is stored, I decided that I should err on the side of caution and repost all of my stories here. Since "short and pithy" is nowhere to be found in my vocabulary, it will take quite a long time. This story, in particular, coming in at over 400,000 words - in 40 chapters - will be slow going.
> 
> Also, anyone who knows me knows that ALL my stories should come with a warning. To wit: Disney, it is most definitely NOT, so proceed with caution.
> 
> PS - I should probably add an additional caveat. I am an unapologetic Obi-Wan lover, inspired in part by an innate nobility that I always saw in him (even in the original trilogy) and in part, by those incredible eyes and that sparkling smile of the younger embodiment of Jedi perfection that was so beautifully portrayed by the lovely Ewan McGregor, so, if you're not an Obi-fan, my work is NOT for you.

_"But, oh! Fell death's untimely frost  
That nipt my flower sae early."_

Robert Burns - _"Highland Mary"_

Chapter 1: Celebration

Coruscant was an infinitely fascinating, infinitely colorful, infinitely seductive world, but it was not beautiful. At least, not usually, and not at all in the depths concealed by the marvelous upper-level façade that was the only section of it ever seen by those privileged enough to live there. But even that rarefied region - reserved for the social elite - was no feast for senses starved for natural beauty. Stylish, smart, skillfully crafted, and tastefully adorned it certainly was, but not beautiful. Except for a very brief period that occurred every year as the Capitol region poised on the brink of winter, or, at least as much winter as the long-established mechanism of planetary weather control decided to allow. Winter Festival - the season of fellowship and camaraderie - a feast honoring the formation of the Order of the Jedi, an event wreathed now in the mists of myth and legend but attributed to have happened at this very season of the year, in the dim times, when Coruscant was still a world with seas and open plains and snow-capped mountains, and the galaxy was still, relatively speaking, young and innocent and uncrowded. The season in which those who ordinarily forbade even the briefest spate of freezing temperatures, relaxed their ban and even went so far as to allow a thin frill of snow to obscure the unavoidable ugliness of so much life in so limited a space.

The Jedi gardens, in particular, ordinarily quite lovely in their own right, were transformed into a place of magic and whimsy, a feast for a soul jaded by too much civilization, too much culture. Unfortunately, the transformation did little for a heart almost atrophied with loneliness.

It was the Eve of Festival, and there was much scurrying about within the confines of the Temple. It was, perhaps, the only time of the year when the formality and solemnity of the Order was relaxed, or even - for a while - forgotten, as the spirit of celebration encouraged the open exchange of affection and amity, not to mention gifts and tokens of remembrance. For most, anyway. But not all.

He knelt in the shadow of an ancient jaquanda tree - the oldest in the entire garden - and noticed little of the activity around him. It was growing late now, and the light was fading rapidly, but some few hardy souls, enamored by the frosting of brilliant white that rendered a place of such prosaic familiarity suddenly strange and exotic, lingered to savor the singular stillness of the moment. He ignored the laughter, the breathless whispers, the pounding of running feet.

Had anyone paused to take a real look at the figure poised in absolute stillness in the shadows, the observer might have been stricken speechless by such a perfectly beautiful vision, but, of course, no one did. No one had time for such a pause.

The last glow of sunset seemed to thread through the needle-like foliage of the old tree, to form a roseate halo around the young, lovely face - the face of an angel, some might have said, and often did - but not today. Soft auburn hair, bright as polished copper, cut spiky short except for a long braid that snaked over his right shoulder, framed a sculpted face, featuring a strong jaw, and an imminently touchable cleft chin and a straight nose and a mobile, sensual mouth which would almost certainly be exquisite when - and if - it smiled. But most striking of all were the eyes, framed amid long, thick lashes, eyes as changeable as a tropical sea, now as blue as a cerulean sky over a pristine glacier, now as gray as clouds bursting with rain, now aquamarine green, and now, shading just slightly to violet, and, occasionally, in certain light, a bare shade away from polished platinum. Only right now, at this particular moment, their color was impossible to determine, as the lids remained firmly closed, preventing him from seeing the diminishing turmoil around him, and, perhaps more importantly, preventing anyone else from seeing whatever it was that resided within those sea-change eyes on this most special, most loving, most cherished night - (loneliest night) - of the (lonely) year.

Beneath the traditional rust-colored robe, and sand colored tunic and trousers, the body was a suitable match for the face, tall without being towering, broad of shoulder and narrow of waist, well-muscled, and long-limbed, dusted with just a light suggestion of golden down across the sculpted chest. Perfect. Beautiful. Solitary.

Obi-Wan Kenobi sank deeper into his meditation, and did not hear (refused to hear?) the murmurs and whispers and soft comments and gentle laughter, and not so gentle snickers and occasional less-than-discreet questions. "Who is that? What's he doing? He's meditating? In the snow? Why isn't he inside? Doesn't he know there's a party going on?"

He knew more than he wanted to know.

Natural light faded and was replaced by the igniting of a series of tiny, brightly colored lanterns strung haphazardly through the garden, a concession to the merriment of the season.

But Obi-Wan did not notice. 

As the night deepened, there were occasional sounds of revelry from within the great Temple; once or twice, small parties darted through the garden paths, en route from one place to another; in the distance, far out over the cityscape, the explosive brilliance of fireworks sporadically dispelled the gloom of night. Nothing pierced the shield that hovered around him.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Except one small tear, which escaped the corner of one eye and trailed down his face and traced the curve of his chin.

Only one. A single response to one moment of weakness. One moment when he impulsively dropped the shielding that was so much a part of his life, and sought the presence which had been the touchstone of his existence for lo, these many years. Immediately, he regretted the impulse.

The presence that was closed off from him, almost completely. The bond between them was not broken; they were, after all, Master and Padawan. But it was a professional bond. No more. It allowed them to exchange information, as needed. To function together as a team in the confines of their missions. It had not always been so, once pulsing with light and life and shared enjoyment. Now it existed only in a state of near dormancy. It was unfailingly courteous, polite, restrained, cultured. Just like the Jedi Master who defined it.

It was also cold, barren, and lifeless, and Obi-Wan, once so filled with wonder and warmth and a will to live and experience and learn, was slowly shutting down. Slowly becoming a shadow of what he had once been. Slowly dying, but only on the inside, where no one else could see. Or almost no one.

He had had no difficulty in locating his Master. Qui-Gon was within the Temple, in the company of some very old friends; in the party, but not of it. Had he been allowed to have his way, he would have spent this wondrous night as he spent all others - alone, in contemplation of lost opportunities. But his friends and companions had refused to allow him such solitude on such an occasion. So he sat now, surrounded. Welcomed and wanted by those who cared about him, but completely disassociated from their presence. For, in his mind, he was where he almost always was these days, when unoccupied by a mission; he lingered in memory; he walked and talked and relived his life with his beloved Tahl. The woman who had claimed his heart. The woman whom he could not save. The woman he had lost, because of his Padawan's failures.

Oh, he had never quite said it, and never would, Obi-Wan was quite sure. But it was there, nevertheless. Always there, lying between them, like the pink draigon no one was supposed to notice or speak of.

Sensing Qui-Gon's preoccupation, he had withdrawn immediately from his Master's consciousness, having no wish to intrude. This was a night for family. 

And Obi-Wan was not family. At one time - very briefly - he had begun to hope that there was some chance he might become family, but those days were long gone.

Nevertheless, discreet as the searching tendril had been, Qui-Gon Jinn was far too skilled in the Jedi Arts not to notice. He briefly toyed with the bare touch of the boy's consciousness, debating whether or not to trace it, to learn the reason for the intrusion. But he was much too enthralled in his pleasant memory of the moment. Memory was all he had, he reasoned; all he would ever have, and much of the responsibility for that lay squarely on his apprentice's shoulders. Not that he believed the boy had deliberately sabotaged the search for his beloved Tahl; there was no darkness in Obi-Wan. Just incredible ineptitude. A clumsy awkwardness that had proven to be fatal, for the only person Qui-Gon had ever allowed himself to love.

Except, of course, for Xanatos.

The Master sipped at a beaker of something warm and spiced. Now there was a name he had not dared utter to himself for many long years. 

Xanatos.

An image - unwanted - rose in his mind. Tall, almost as tall as Jinn himself, rugged, raven-haired. Beautiful. Graceful.

If only . . .

But, no. There was no point in following that path. Xanatos was gone, just as Tahl was gone.

The two great loves of his life.

The child was all right; there was no danger. He required no further thought.

The Padawan felt the faint echo of his Master's thoughts, and knew he had been dismissed from contemplation. He deliberately did not sigh. He had, after all, chosen to be where he was. Earlier in the day, his friends - creche friends, friends of his childhood - had done everything they could think of to lure him into participation in their own intimate festival celebrations, but he had politely declined all invitations, for the same basic reason. 

It was a night for family. The other Padawans would share familial traditions with their Masters. 

He could not bear to watch.

Finally, as the hour grew steadily later, he rose, shook the snow from his robes, and walked into the Temple. Stretching out with the Force, he made his way through the corridors, avoiding contact with any of the many revelers still roaming the halls, and arrived at the work-out complex, encountering no one.

The apprentice had no further need for meditation; he was already as centered as he ever was these days.

Quickly, he discarded his robe, sash, belt, and tunics, until he was stripped to the waist.

He didn't bother to activate any lighting. For this routine, none was necessary. 

The azure glow of his lightsaber fell pallid on his skin, and reflected silver in his eyes.

It was a 17th level kata he initiated. Very advanced. More advanced than any he'd ever attempted before. 

Ordinarily, a Padawan was not allowed to attempt anything beyond 12th level without his Master in close attendance, as it was believed - and rightly so - that such strenuous complex exercises, performed without supervision, were intrinsically dangerous.

As Obi-Wan leapt, without conscious thought, to a beam high above his head, performing a demanding lateral twist as he did so, he wondered for a minute why he was doing this. He certainly knew better.

As he reached the beam, and balanced perfectly, he recognized the answer.

It didn't matter how dangerous it was, because it didn't matter if he got hurt. 

Maybe - if he hurt enough physically - there would be something within him that would feel again.

Maybe, he would be alive again.

But he didn't think so.

Running as fast as he could and leaping for a platform all the way across the vast exercise room, he belatedly realized that he was no longer alone.

His focus faltered, and it came to him, as if from very far away, that he wasn't going to reach his goal. He was falling. Clumsily. Awkwardly. Just as Qui-Gon would expect.

"No!" shrieked a voice from beneath him.

He felt the desperate grasp of Force energy reach for him and attempt to slow his descent. He even, in a rather desultory fashion, reached for some measure of control himself, but his efforts achieved little. He did not, in fact, land on his head, a little fact which might have saved his life, but he did land on his shoulder. It didn't kill him; it just made him wish he were dead.

"Son of a Sith!" he muttered through clenched teeth, as bright starbursts of pain spread through his upper body.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid!" cried a disembodied voice, as the owner of the voice raced to his side. "What in the name of wookiee whiskers do you think you're doing?"

"Trying," he replied, trying to draw breath, "to maintain focus, which is really hard when someone sneaks up on you." 

"I did not sneak," said Padawan Ciara Barosse. "I was looking for you. Why is it so dark in here?"

"Because," he answered in a hiss, "some people might want to be alone."

"Alone," she echoed. "On the Eve of Festival. Oh, Obi-Wan, please. What are you doing in here in the dark, by yourself?"

He pulled his hand away from the throb in his shoulder, and stared. "Bleeding. Apparently."

Stretching out through the Force, she flipped light switches, and the cave-like great room was suddenly subdivided into pools of radiance, one of which was centered on the fallen apprentice.

"Well," she said softly, probing the wound with gentle fingers, "I have no idea why you're in here alone, but I figure your Master should be pounding through that door just any second now, so you can bet you're not going to spend the rest of the evening by yourself."

"Don't count on it," he replied, busily channeling bright pinwheels of pain into the Force.

The girl sat back on her heels. "You're still blocking him. Aren't you?"

"No point," he replied, "in ruining his evening."

"He's your _master_ , for criminy's sake," she snapped. "He needs to know."

"No, he doesn't."

"And just how do you intend to hide it from him?" she demanded.

Gingerly, he rolled to a sitting position. "I don't. It won't be necessary. He won't notice, if you'll just help me along to the Healer's wing."

"Obi," she said softly, forcing him to meet her eyes, "this is not right. When you're hurt, he's supposed to be there to help you."

He ducked his head. "He would be, if I needed him. I don't. Not for this."

Ciara waited, until she saw him begin to squirm. "This is getting scary," she said finally. "You're hurt, Obi, and I'm not talking about your shoulder. You won't let any of us help you, and I guess he just . . . can't. I know he's never really recovered from losing Tahl, but it's destroying you. He needs to know."

He refused to meet her eyes. "He knows."

The dark-eyed Q'harian girl tossed long, silky curls off her face, and tried, without much success, to conceal the spark of anger in her eyes. "But he just doesn't care. Is that what you're saying?"

Obi-Wan, using her strong arm for leverage, managed to get off his backside and up on his feet - barely. "Nowhere is it written that a Master and padawan must have a family bond. All he has to do - all he promised to do - was to teach me how to be a knight. He's done that."

"A knight, huh?" she echoed. "Better yet, how about a machine? One that never cries or hurts or needs or disobeys. Because that's what you're becoming - a damned droid!"

"Are you going to help me get to the healers," he asked softly, "or just let me bleed out all over the floor?"

"If I thought it would force you to call him," she retorted sharply, "I'd do exactly that."

"You talk too much," he said with a wry smile, reaching out and touching her cheek with a rough thumb. 

"Obi," she said softly, "you're really scaring me. It's like you're just pulling away from life. We love you, you know."

He nodded. "I know."

"And, if he doesn't, he's just plain stupid."

He shook his head. "He's not stupid. He's just . . . . . ."

"Just?"

His grin didn't reach his eyes. "All full up. No room for new arrivals."

"Obi . . ."

"Give it a rest, Chi," he said, silencing her with a gentle finger pressed against her lips. "Boys have grown to manhood all over the galaxy, without benefit of a loving relationship with a mentor. They do just fine, and so will I."

He accessed the Force to call his discarded clothing to him and limped toward the exit.

Ciara stood for a moment, looking after him. "Sure they do," she murmured, finally, "but they don't love someone the way you love that man, and if I were ten years older and 50 pounds heavier, I'd just knock him down and sit on him to make him understand what a total fool he's become."

Obi-Wan was conscious of her muttering but chose to ignore it. "Coming?" 

"I ought to make you crawl," she grumped.

She drew abreast of him, and he leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose. "You are _not_ cute when you're grumpy," he said.

"Stop that!"

"Stop what?"

"I hate it when you're charming. You know that."

"You'd rather I growl at you?"

"I'd rather you . . ."

"What?"

She stopped and turned to face him. "I'd rather you got mad. Really mad. Punch-somebody-in-the-mouth mad."

"Anger . . ."

"So help me," she almost snarled, "if you tell me it leads to the Dark Side, I'll smack you myself."

He just smiled. "By the way, what are you doing here?"

"I forgot," she snapped.

"No, you didn't," he said reasonably. "You just don't want to tell me."

"This is what I get for being nice to you. I was bringing you a box of caroba fudge. Master Gallia made it for you."

"So," he drawled, looking around as they were leaving, "where is it?"

"Probably still accelerating into orbit," she replied, a tiny grin twitching at the corners of her mouth. "When you fell, I just - threw it - somewhere to try to get to you."

"Wow!" he said softly.

"What?"

"You actually sacrificed a box of Master Gallia's fudge, for me?"

She draped his good arm across her shoulders as she noted a slight waver in his stance. "Yeah, well, don't let it go to your head. I must have been delusional or something."

He winced, as something within the shoulder, annoyed no doubt by his cavalier attitude, shifted, and sent a bolt of pure, sweet agony all the way down through his body.

"Besides," she said, busily accessing the Force to try to deflect some of that awful torment, "you're the one who's going to have to explain what happened to it, when she asks."

The skin of his face went through several changes of color, in rapid succession - from flushed pink, to ghastly pallor, to a slight greenish cast, as the throbbing pain caused his stomach to flex and twist and threaten to expel what little food he had eaten on this holiday.

Quickly, but gently, despite the speed of her movements, Ciara pulled him closer against her and hurried down the corridor. "You'd be a whole lot better off," she muttered, "if you forgot about that triple-damned shield that's 'protecting' your master, and worried about making yourself better."

"I'm fine," he mumbled, eyelids fluttering.

"Don't you pass out on me, Kenobi," she commanded, feeling him sag further against her. "Don't you do it. Don't you . . ."

She managed to brace him as he went down. "Son of a Sith!" she sighed, "I told you not to do that."

His head lolled against her shoulder. She reached for her comm unit, but paused long enough to tuck his padawan braid behind his ear, her eyes bright with affection. "OK, my friend. I'll do it your way. I won't call him. But someday - someday you'll bat those big baby blues all you like, and I'm still going to have the pleasure of telling him what a big prick he is." She sighed. "But, just for you, not today. But I can't carry you by myself, not even with the Force. So . . . ."

She raised the comm link to her lips. "Master Ramal," she said softly, when her Master replied to her hail, "I need some help."

**************** ********************* *************

 

The grand ballroom of the Jedi Temple was not a ballroom, nor was it particularly grand, except that it was very large. It was used when space was the only requisite for a meeting or an enclave or, very rarely, a social gathering. Like Festival.

Initiates, novices, and some of the younger Padawans had spent a great deal of time within the past few days hanging boughs of greenery and swags of ribbons and strands of tiny multi-colored lights, and placing urns overflowing with seasonal blooms atop every available surface in the room. On a dais at one side of the cavernous chamber, a small group of Jedi musicians sat and improvised melodies that, while not exactly traditional Festival music, were near enough to the original to ruffle no feathers - or furs or hair or scales or whatever biological material might cover the skins of the various species in attendance.

Early in the evening, the noise level was very nearly deafening, as Masters and knights, with rueful smiles and rolling eyes, simply stood back and allowed the very young to - well - to run wild, for a time. Jedi discipline was notoriously firm, but not tonight.

Children ran and shrieked and climbed and scampered and did whatever children wanted to do, as Masters, knights, and other accompanying adults indulged in a pre-holiday feast and forgot to behave like fabled Jedi, for just this little while. 

As the hour grew somewhat later, creche masters and caregivers appeared to herd little ones off to the quiet of the nurseries and initiate's wing, as yawns became more and more prominent. 

Later still, the younger Padawans, with sheepish smiles, bade their Masters fond farewells, and retired to their quarters, awaiting the coming of Festival morning, when the celebration would continue.

Finally, it was only knights, Masters, and a few Padawans - these last old enough to be allowed to join the adults at table - who lingered in the ballroom. The musicians continued to play, but their improvisations became somewhat more daring, and the conversation strayed to slightly more adult subjects.

Master Yoda moved among the several dozen Masters still present, greeting many with murmured comments or, sometimes, just friendly smiles. Until he came to Qui-Gon Jinn, who was deeply engaged in gazing out into the night, beyond the nearby tall windows.

"Here, are you?" asked the diminutive Master, finally, after waiting for several minutes, for an acknowledgement of his presence that did not come.

"Of course," replied Qui-Gon, pulling his eyes away from the darkness with obvious reluctance.

Yoda's crystalline eyes swept the room. "Your Padawan, I do not see."

"He's around," said the tall Master. "Somewhere."

"Ummm. A nice Festival you have planned for him?"

Qui-Gon smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Obi-Wan is far too old for such foolishness."

Yoda merely stood silent, regarding him with those huge, liquid eyes that always seemed to see too much.

"Besides, I'm sure he has plans with his friends."

The tiny Master moved closer, and then stood waiting until Qui-Gon took the hint and bent forward to hear him. "To raise a fool, I never intended. But somewhere, a mistake I made."

"Are you . . . "

"Destroying the boy, you are."

Resentment flared in midnight blue eyes, followed by a bottomless, ageless, eternal rage, smouldering still. "I will fulfill my obligation to him."

Yoda sighed, and his ears drooped noticeably. "Find your Padawan, I must. A message I must give him."

Thumping the floor with his ever-present gimmer stick, he turned away.

"What message?" called Qui-Gon, his interest piqued in spite of his anger.

"An apology," replied the troll.

"For what?"

Yoda turned back and regarded the tall Master with glistening eyes. For a heartbeat, Qui-Gon almost believed he saw a tear there, but that couldn't be; in all the years he had known the tiny Master, he had never seen him cry.

"Ruined his life, I did. Entrusted him to you."

Qui-Gon surged to his feet. "Ruined _his_ life? _His_ life?"

The troll blinked slowly. "Obvious it is, you think he ruined yours."

"I am the one who is alone," said Qui-Gon, through clenched teeth.

Yoda's eyes scanned the room around them, where knights and Masters, all friends of Qui-Gon Jinn, in one way or another, laughed and talked and enjoyed each other's company.

"Hmmm," said the troll. "But he is the one who is not here. He is the one who is alone tonight."

"He's not . . ."

"Silence," said the troll, with a mighty whack of his stick. "You have no idea if he's alone or not. For you haven't bothered to check. Live in your bitterness if you must and feel sorry for yourself. And punish him for the sins you believe he committed. But honest with yourself, you should be. Destroying him, you are, and it is as you wish it to be. Fool yourself, if you cannot face the truth, but fool me, you do not."

"Master, he . . . "

"Was a child," roared the tiny Master, totally unconcerned with the startled glances that darted toward them. Abruptly, much faster than most people would have believed he was capable of moving, he raced forward and laid a clawed hand on Qui-Gon's shoulder. "Tahl would have willingly laid down her life to protect him, to protect the child. You dishonor her with your foolishness."

Pain flared bright in Qui-Gon's eyes. "No. I would never . . . Master, I can't. I have tried to regain the feelings that I once thought I might have, but . . . "

"Find him unworthy of your love, do you?"

Qui-Gon sank back into his chair, and thought for a moment about his Padawan. "No, not unworthy. I can't explain it. Just . . . "

The tiny Master's eyes closed slowly. "Love someone you cannot, just because you should."

"No." It was a barely audible sigh.

"Ummmmm," Yoda mused, then looked up into the face of his one-time Padawan. "Deserves more, he does. One day, find more, he will. But you . . . alone and empty, you will remain. Your last hope, is he. Throw him away, and your heart will never recover."

"I can't trust him," came the whispered response.

"Ahhh," said the tiny Master, "the truth, at last, I see. About Tahl's death, this is, but also something more. Much more. Much older. About Xanatos, this is. Love him still, you do. And because of that, you have no room within you for Obi-Wan." Once more, there was that curious glimmer in those huge eyes. "A fool, you are, Padawan. For the one is worth ten times the other. But see the truth, you will not."

He turned away and moved toward the exit.

"Where are you going?" Qui-Gon asked, his voice rough and raspy.

The troll paused, but did not turn back. "To make certain that someone, someone other than a stranger, wishes your Padawan a happy Festival. Alone for the holiday, no child should be."

"But he's not. . . ." whispered the towering Master, too softly to be heard. He didn't complete the sentence, for he realized abruptly that Yoda was right; he had no idea whether or not Obi-Wan was alone. But the other part of the tiny Master's remark, the part about a child on a holiday - that, he did know about. He pictured for a moment the face and form of his Padawan, from the spiked, ginger hair, to the strong, young body, and, finally, those marvelously expressive eyes. Eyes that, lately, seemed less expressive; less open; more shadowed. Eyes that sometimes reflected such a marvelous innocence that Qui-Gon, when caught unawares, was stricken speechless by such purity. Eyes that had once laughed easily, openly, infectiously. Eyes that laughed hardly at all, any more.

The eyes of a child, a wounded child.

The Master sipped his drink and considered all that had been said and knew that he should rise and go to find his Padawan.

But he didn't, finally. Because he knew that any gesture he could make would be futile. He knew the boy too well; knew what the boy wanted - needed - from him. Knew, ultimately, that it was something he could not give. Absolution, benediction, redemption, forgiveness; these he could not offer. 

His heart burned still with grief and envy and unresolved anger. Yoda was right, as usual. There was no room within him for love.

 

************** **************************

 

TBC


	2. The Walking Wounded

Chapter 2: The Walking Wounded

 

Ciara Barosse paced in one direction, while her Jedi Master, Ramal Dyprio, paced in another. By some happy circumstance of fortune, they did not, quite, collide, but rather bypassed each other, sometimes by only the narrowest of margins.

"What's taking so long?" she muttered finally, pausing to gaze out through the frosted (yes - really frosted!) windows, and watch new flurries of snowflakes dance on updrafts from the planet's deeper levels.

"Tell me again what you saw," said her Master, his swarthy face fixed in an uncharacteristic scowl.

"Not much," she admitted. "I interrupted his concentration, and he fell, almost immediately."

"The question is," the Master mused, "what was he doing up there?"

"Practicing a kata," she replied, her loyalty to her fallen friend warring with her devotion to her Master.

"Little One," said Master Ramal, reaching out to touch her face gently, "if he was trying to leap from one of the beams all the way across to the back platform . . ." He paused and looked at her expectantly.

"Okay," she mumbled. "He was way above his head."

Ramal nodded. "How far above?"

She shrugged slightly. "15th level, at least."

The waiting room of the healer wing was not known for creature comforts, and the lighting was dim, at best. But it was bright enough for the Corellian Master to spot the glisten of tears in his Padawan's eyes.

"Please, Master," she said softly, "don't ask me to betray his confidence."

"Ciara, do you think I would actually do that?"

"Not ordinarily, but if you thought he needed help . . ."

"Does he?"

Her eyes brimmed. "Yes," she whispered, "but I don't think any of us can help him."

Something sharp and bright flared briefly in Master Ramal's eyes. "Jinn," he said flatly, his face twisting, as if the name left a bad taste in his mouth.

But his padawan surprised him. "I'm not even sure he could help. Not any more."

"What do you mean?"

"For the first year or so after Master Tahl died, there might have been a chance. But I think maybe it's been too long now."

"I still don't see . . . ."

"Master Jinn blamed Obi-Wan. Bant blamed Obi-Wan. Oh, not in words so much, but in the way they looked at him. In the things they didn't say. In the ways they avoided his eyes and his touch. And all of us who are close to him saw it, so just imagine how much more keenly _he_ saw it."

"And he never confronted them about it? Never tried to make them see reason?"

She shook her head, and more tears flowed. "Never. He wouldn't do that, you see. Because as much as Master Jinn blames Obi-Wan, and as much as Padawan Bant blames Obi-Wan, there is no one who blames Obi-Wan, as much as he blames himself."

"He was a 15-year-old child," said Ramal, unconsciously mimicking the words Master Yoda had used earlier.

Wearily, she wiped her eyes, then looked up at her Master. "Obi-Wan," she said softly, "was never a child. He never got the chance, and he never will. This is just killing him, Master, and there's absolutely nothing any of us can do about it."

"Hummmm," came a voice from the doorway. "See about that, we will."

"Master Yoda," said Ramal, with a lopsided smile, "have you taken up eavesdropping in your advancing years?"

"Umm," said the troll, "learn much, one can, from my position. How is young Obi-Wan?"

"We don't know yet," replied Ciara. "The healers didn't seem too alarmed."

"No," mused Yoda, "they wouldn't. Accustomed to seeing him in worse condition, they are. Much worse." He folded his hands on his gimmer stick and seemed to lose himself in the darkness beyond the windows.

"Accident-prone," said the girl. "At least, that's what they tell him."

Huge, crystalline eyes turned to regard her solemnly. "Believe differently, do you?"

Her eyes widened, and her Master realized that there was something yet unspoken in this dilemma that she had not confronted, something she did not want to see. "No," she answered quickly. "Of course not."

Yoda sighed. "His Master has not been called." It was not a question.

"Why waste the breath?" asked Master Ramal, not bothering to conceal his distaste. He was not one to leave things unspoken.

Master Yoda turned to regard the Corellian. "Condemn him, you do, without possessing all the facts."

"Master," said Dyprio softly, "I have all the facts I require. Suffering needlessly, right now, under the hands of the healers is a child who has been abandoned by his Master, in every way but in name only. 'Accident-prone.' Accident-prone, my ass. That kid has done everything he could to get himself killed, mostly in the name of protecting his Master, a Master that can't be bothered to interrupt his Festival revels, or whatever the hell he's doing, to make sure his apprentice is all right and is not alone for the holiday. We've all lost people, Master. Every one of us. But he's the only one that's determined to exact capital punishment from a child, to compensate for it." 

By this time, Ciara's eyes were huge. Nobody - _nobody_ \- ever talked to Master Yoda like that. But, then again, Dyprio was Corellian, and tended to go his own way as often as not. Still, this was beyond the pale, even for him. Then too, there was the fact that what he had said was undeniable, whether she had wanted to know it or not.

The diminutive Master was silent for a moment. "Passionate, you are, Master Ramal. It does you credit. But it resolves nothing."

Somewhat shame-faced, Ramal nodded and turned to watch the dancing snow. "Sooner or later," he said in a flat, inflectionless voice, "he'll succeed, you know. He'll find a way to get himself killed, to atone for his 'sins'." He turned back to stare into Yoda's face. "What will that do to his Master?"

Huge, citrus green eyes blinked slowly. "Destroy whatever is left of him. But not much remains."

But Dyprio would not be distracted. "It's the duty of the Council to protect an apprentice, if his Master is no longer capable, or sufficiently devoted to do so."

Yoda walked slowly across the floor. "Contemplating filing charges, are you?"

Ciara gasped sharply. "Master, no," she said quickly. "You mustn't."

"Ciara, it's for his own . . . "

"No," she said firmly, her eyes softly reflecting her pride in his willingness to take on anyone and anything in defense of what he believed, even as she was forced to disagree with his conclusion. "There's more to this than you know. There's an element to the equation that you haven't considered."

"Which is?"

Again, her eyes brimmed, and she dabbed at her tears. "Whatever Master Jinn may feel for Obi-Wan, there's no doubt about what Obi-Wan feels. I'm not even sure he understands why, but he loves his Master, with all his heart. As much as I love mine."

Ramal reached out and tugged gently on her Padawan braid.

"You can't take him away from his Master," she continued, still sniffling, "for he'll accept no other. Break their bond, and Obi-Wan is lost to the Jedi."

Yoda nodded. "A loss I cannot allow."

Ramal Dyprio's eyes were bright with questions, but the tiny Master simply shook his head. "Ask me not, for it is something of which I cannot speak. But the Jedi must not lose Obi-Wan. On this, all depends."

 

****************** *************************** ****************

 

The perpetual twilight which was the only "night" that Coruscant ever really achieved, was brightened somehow by the drift of snowflakes, and an enhanced radiance fell through the terrace doors into the common room of the quarters assigned to Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn and his apprentice. As a senior Master, not to mention one-half (or maybe two-thirds, according to body weight, as Obi-Wan had, at times in the past, been prone to quip) of one of the Temple's most successful negotiating teams, Qui-Gon had been assigned one of the more spacious apartments, allowing both him and his Padawan a measure of privacy not often available in the Jedi community.

It was a circumstance for which he was devoutly grateful every day.

He stood in the open doorway for a while, gazing out into the night, sensing immediately that his apprentice had not yet returned from his holiday revels. The apartment felt empty, but then, he thought ruefully, it always felt empty to him these days, even when Obi-Wan was sprawled, as seemed to be the wont of teen-agers everywhere (teen-agers? But Obi-Wan was no longer a teen-ager. Was he?) right in the middle of it. Not that he sprawled there much any more; recently, he had spent more and more time closeted in his bedroom, involved in whatever it was that boys of that age found so interesting. Briefly, the Master wondered if the boy had a girlfriend; he had never asked, and Obi-Wan had never mentioned one. He knew, of course, that the boy was friendly with several of the Padawans with whom he had been creche mates; knew, also, that the Mon Calamarian girl who had, perhaps, been Obi-Wan's closest childhood friend had severed their relationship several years before. 

Several years. Five years, actually. Had it really been that long?

Bant, Tahl's Padawan, had been assigned to a new Master, a Bith who spent most of his time in the field, so the girl was seldom at the Temple, and, apparently, made no attempt to see Obi-Wan when she was. The boy had never mentioned it. In fact, now that he thought about it, he supposed that Obi-Wan didn't mention much of anything any more. It seemed that the prevalent condition in their quarters was silence.

Wearily (when was he ever anything else but weary any more? he wondered) he moved into the apartment and closed the door. There was enough light from the windows to see his way, so he didn't bother to dial up any illumination. Silently, he paused and continued his study of the lacy flakes whirling past the window.

Tahl had loved the snow. Like a child.

He remembered their last Festival together, the year before she took Bant as her Padawan, when she and Obi-Wan had ridiculed Qui-Gon's indifference to the powdery wonder falling from the sky, and proceeded to construct a snow person (she refused to call it a "snowman"). It had been no more than half a meter tall when completed, because they didn't really have very much snow to begin with, and because each of them had managed to force heaping handfuls of the bright crystals down the back of the other's tunics in the course of their endeavors. 

Qui-Gon smiled. Obi-Wan had not yet hit his first spurt of growth then, so he had still been quite small, giving Tahl an advantage that she had no compunction about using. The padawan had wound up flat on his back, arms and legs Force-restrained, as Tahl sat astride his wriggling form, force-feeding him huge chunks of snow.

Their combined laughter, breathless, unrestrained, infectious, had warmed the Master's heart. He remembered lifting both of them, one under each arm, and carrying them into the warmth of the apartment, dumping them both, without ceremony, in the middle of the floor. And getting hauled down with them, as Tahl discovered that his padawan was imminently ticklish under his rib cage, and Obi-Wan bellowed for rescue. By the end of the session, the tenants in the quarters below them were calling to complain.

Qui-Gon sank to his knees before the terrace doors, lost in memory.

A pallid shaft of reflected light touched him, emphasizing leonine features, no longer young but still quite striking - noble brow, strong jaw, mobile mouth, and, of course, that trademark broken nose that his Padawan, long years ago now, once loved to tease him about. But it was the eyes that were most impressive - hooded, midnight blue, guarded. Eyes that sometimes held a lifetime of wisdom; eyes that had seen too much; eyes that stared out into the gentle snowfall, but saw only long-dead yesterdays.

Later that night - and how could any of them have known it would be their last Festival together - the adults had shared mulled wine while Obi-Wan had hot caroba, and Tahl had fussed over the boy, pressing him to eat more, to bundle up well when going out, to stop squinting when he sat down to watch a holovid, and Qui-Gon had known, from the gentle sparkle in his padawan's eyes that the boy was merely humoring her, amused by her maternal attitude, but deeply touched at the same time. When Obi-Wan had finally, after much begging, convinced them to allow him to sample a tiny serving of the wine, both Qui-Gon and Tahl had lectured him on the virtues of sobriety, then proceeded to break into helpless laughter as he exhibited the first effects of the alcohol, complaining that his lips were numb and the floor was suddenly unlevel and that someone had definitely moved the 'fresher door.

Together, they had tucked the boy in that night, despite his complaints that he was too old to be tucked, but the complaints had been suspiciously faint, and his eyes and his smile, as his Master bent and dropped a kiss on his forehead, had been luminous in the shadowed room.

A sudden sob shook Qui-Gon's shoulders, as he realized how much he missed that luminous smile, and that he would, almost certainly, never see it again. He had spoken the truth to Master Yoda; he had tried to regain the feeling he had once had for the boy. He did know that his resentment and anger were unjustified. He just couldn't help it.

Tahl had loved Obi-Wan very much, and, if she had lived, Qui-Gon was fairly certain she would have embraced the role of mothering him. And he knew, as well, that she would have been disappointed in his own treatment of the boy; knew that she would never have blamed the Padawan for the delays that cost her her life. But, then again, she wasn't the one who had to live with it.

He desperately wanted to be able to forgive his apprentice; desperately wanted to be able to reach out and embrace the boy again, to open his empty heart and allow his padawan to fill it, as he knew the boy would, given a chance.

But he dared not. Could not. Would not.

With a sigh, the Master rose and made his way toward his bedroom. Only because of a trick of the ambient light from the window did he notice the gleaming object sitting in the center of a small table by his bedroom door. A small, gaily wrapped object. Dwarfed by the Master's huge hand.

Origami, they called it, he thought. The twisted paper, formed into the likeness of a small bird, perched atop the silver-sheathed box. His fingers felt incredibly thick and awkward as he lifted the tiny figure. When he did so, the ingeniously wrapped box somehow opened under his hand, revealing a paper-thin, translucent porcelain cup, adorned only by the ombre pattern of its color, shading blue-white to deepest midnight.

There was a tiny card. 

"Your old cup is beyond saving. Happy Festival, Master."

There was no signature. Of course.

_Happy Festival, Master._

The words rang in his memory, falling, oh, so easily, from the lips of one who was not Obi-Wan. Xanatos, of the laughing eyes. Xanatos, brawny, proud, confident, appearing always to be smiling at some private joke. Xanatos, sometimes sly, often infuriating, never subservient. Xanatos - beloved above all, intended to be the lasting legacy of the great Qui-Gon Jinn. The Master had believed he knew all there was to know about Xanatos, had known the names of all his friends, all the girls who fell under his spell, his favorite authors and actors and holovids and music - everything. And, ultimately, of course, he had known nothing of the person inside, beneath the surface. Xanatos: betrayer of all his Master held dear.

And even then, even then, he had allowed himself to be led back from despair, after the betrayal, by the artlessness and purity of an innocent child. And that very same child, in the grip of that very same innocence, had provided the obstacle that kept him from saving the life of the only woman he had ever allowed himself to love. His duty to the Jedi had dominated his entire life; now it was all he had left.

He would honor his commitment to the boy; Obi-Wan would be a Jedi knight.

It was the only thing the Master had left to give.

He could not open himself again, could not allow any vulnerability to the pain and despair wrought by love's bitter disappointment. His heart, not just broken, but shattered in tiny pieces, could not be mended again.

On the table, beside the package, sat a holopic of Obi-Wan, taken on the day he had been reaffirmed as Qui-Gon's padawan. Blue green eyes, even in the dimness of the unlit room, gleamed with happiness and contentment.

Gently, Qui-Gon extended one finger and stroked the image.

"I'm sorry, my Padawan," he whispered. "Master Yoda is correct. I don't deserve you. I would love you, if I could, but there's no longer anything within me that's capable of love, and I have no forgiveness in my heart. I will do the best I can for you, but I know it won't be enough."

He moved to enter his bedroom, but he stopped and reached back to retrieve the ombre cup and the origami bird. It was foolish, of course, but there was, for some reason, some small sense of comfort to be found in caressing the lovely lines of the cup. He wondered briefly how his padawan had managed to pay for such a lovely, fragile thing, but it was no more than a passing fragment of thought, dismissed almost before it was completed.

The tall Master went into his room and closed the door behind him, and felt, as he always did, the mantle of maintaining the image of the mighty Master fall away from him as he shut out the world. 

The tears came quickly tonight, harsh, blinding, acrid. His loneliness wrapped around him like a blanket, he made his way to his bed, and prepared to try to endure the emptiness of another long night - dreamless, if he was lucky. For his dreams, invariably, were nought but a replay of the sequence of events that had taken his beloved from him, and served only to reinforce the bitter depth of the chasm that separated him from his padawan.

 

************** ******************** *******************

 

"Consider yourself very fortunate, Young Man," said Healer Maraji. "If Mirilent were here, you'd be in bacta up to your ears."

"Don't need bacta," Obi-Wan managed to mumble, his face pressed firmly against a pillow. Bracing himself.

"You sure about this?" The Healer sounded nervous.

"Well, I _was_ ," the Padawan said, still muffled. "Just get it over with. OK?"

"Do you want me to count to three, or something?"

Obi-Wan lifted his head and tried to meet the Healer's eyes without much success. "Have you ever done this before?"

"Sure," said Maraji, "but the patient is usually not awake, at the time."

"Well, just stop stalling, and . . . _Holy shit!"_

The shoulder popped back into place fairly easily, but not without a spectacular burst of pain for its owner.

Obi-Wan's face was whiter than the sheet it lay against.

"Sorry," said the healer. "I thought it best to surprise you."

The padawan favored the Healer with an evil leer. "You've been around Mira too long," he managed to gasp, flexing his shoulder experimentally.

Maraji ran his palm over the discolored area of the shoulder, focusing healing energy on the massive bruising and the one, jagged laceration.

"I hope you feel better than you look," he said, "cause you still look terrible. Although, considering how you usually look when they bring you in here, I guess this qualifies as a trifle."

Obi-Wan sat up slowly, and found the discomfort still considerable, but manageable. 

"Not so fast," said the Healer. 

"What . . ."

"You're slightly dehydrated. Before you go, I want to pump in some fluids."

"That's not . . . ."

The healer held up one hand. "It's either that, or I slap you in a bacta tank. The ribs are still cracked, you know. And while I know that you've broken them so often, it's practically normal for you, I could still hold you in here, if I wanted to. So what's it going to be? IV fluids - in and out in 30 minutes - or bacta for the next twenty hours?"

Obi-Wan sighed. "You've definitely been around Mira for too long."

"Um, hmm," Maraji mused, reaching for the infuser. "The interesting question might be, why are you dehydrated? Did you eat today?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Earlier."

"Obi-Wan?" Soft - serene - unhurried.

"Yeah?"

"We can stay here all night, if we have to. One word answers are not going to get you out of here any sooner. When did you eat, and what?"

The Padawan heaved a huge sigh. "I had some soup for lunch."

"And?"

"And nothing."

The healer affixed the infusion patch to Obi-Wan's arm and activated it with a tiny Force push. "You're losing weight, Padawan. Is it deliberate?"

"I'm not really . . ."

It was Maraji's turn to sigh. "Can we just drop the debate? You are losing weight. When you were in here three weeks ago, when Padawan Sohar-siu managed to blow up half the chem lab and you with it, you were almost six pounds heavier. That's a lot of weight to drop in three weeks. Especially when you don't have that much to spare."

Obi-Wan was silent, staring up into nothingness.

"You're not eating, are you? Not much, anyway."

"I . . . ."

"Yes?"

The Padawan closed his eyes and rubbed at them with the back of his hand. "I'm just not hungry."

Maraji leaned against the side of the bed and folded his arms across his chest. "You're twenty years old, Obi-Wan, and you're not finished growing yet. Some K'hiria-Melasians continue to grow well into their thirties. 'Not hungry' shouldn't enter into it, at all. Unless there's something bothering you. Is there?"

"No."

"No physical symptoms at all?"

"No."

The Healer's eyes were very gentle. "Something else, then. What's bothering you so much that you're not eating?"

"Nothing," said Obi-Wan firmly. "I'm just busy."

"Ummmm. Yes. We've noticed. The whole Temple has noticed. How many classes are you teaching now?"

"A few."

"Seven." Maraji interjected. "Mirilent checked. Seven classes to teach, plus Force only knows how many you take. Plus training sessions, and missions, and all the paperwork entailed in all of it. One might be tempted to wonder when you find time to eat or sleep?"

The sigh this time was very gentle. "I like to keep busy."

The Healer required no particular skill in mindreading to note that the boy was refusing to meet his eyes. "Right. Well, at this rate, you're certainly going to keep us busy. I want to see you back here in a week."

"Why?"

"Because we miss you when you're gone. Because Mirilent will want to see you. But, mostly, because I want to recheck those ribs, monitor the bruising in your shoulder, and check your weight."

"But . . ."

"When," interrupted the Healer, "are you going to give up trying to argue with your Healer? You can't win, you know. And, if I were you, I'd see about trying to put back some of that weight you're shedding. Because, from me, you're going to get a lecture. From Mirilent, you're going to get force-feeding, with a tube, if necessary. And you can trust me when I tell you that you really don't want to go there."

Once more, Obi-Wan sighed. "All right. I'll come back."

Maraji grinned. "Might as well give in with good grace. I'm not going to forget about it."

Finally, helpless to resist, Obi-Wan grinned. "Nag, nag, nag," he said softly.

"Your public is waiting," said the Healer. "Ready to face them?"

"Who's out there?"

"A much smaller crowd than usual. Of course, we haven't made any announcement that you're here. Otherwise, your fan club would be all over us."

"I do not have a fan club."

Maraji smiled and shrugged. "Whatever you say. Anyway, Ciara is waiting. And Master Yoda, I believe."

Obi-Wan winced. "I don't suppose you could tell him that I'm sleeping. Could you?"

"He could not," said a voice from the doorway. Very near the floor in the doorway. 

Ciara raced to the bedside, and pulled up short at the sight of the spectacular bruising on the patient's back and shoulders.

"Oh, ick, Obi-Wan," she exclaimed. "That's really ugly."

"Ick?" he echoed, blank-faced. "That is not a word."

"Ick," she said firmly, "as in icky. And whether you like the word or not, it still applies. That is ugly."

Master Yoda's approach to the bedside was much more measured and sedate, but there was a small measure of mischief reflected in his huge eyes, as he levitated himself up to perch beside the wounded padawan. "Correct, is your friend. Very icky."

Obi-Wan groaned in mock horror.

"How feel you, Padawan?" 

Obi-Wan knew better than to attempt to downplay his injury with the tiny Master, so he allowed his puckish sense of humor to surface. "Like a bantha sat on me. Otherwise, fine."

"Ummm," said Yoda, "17th level katas, banthas do not attempt."

"How did you . . .?" Yoda's eyes widened, and the padawan paused. "Never mind."

"Looking for you, I was," said the Master.

Obi-Wan heard a note of genuine concern in the Master's tone of voice, and was, immediately, completely solemn. "How can I help you, Master?"

"No help do I require, young one. To wish you happy festival was my only purpose."

There was a fleeting, barely there flare of something - very young, very vulnerable - in the depths of crystal blue eyes, before long-lashed lids dropped to conceal whatever it was that the boy did not want anyone to see. "Thank you, Master."

A stir at the doorway announced the arrival of Master Ramal Dyprio, and Obi-Wan forced himself to remain perfectly calm. It was no secret among the Jedi that Master Dyprio was something of a renegade, and that there was absolutely no love lost between him and Obi-Wan's Master. Still, Obi-Wan had already realized that Ciara had probably summoned her Master to assist her in getting Obi-Wan to the healers' wing. So, regardless of any misgivings, he would live up to his reputation as the perfect Padawan, not realizing that it was the perpetuation of that very image that so irked Ciara's Master.

"My thanks, Master Dyprio," he said softly. "I'm sure you helped Ciara get me here."

Surprisingly, Dyprio accepted the expression of gratitude without his customary glib response. "You're quite welcome. I hope you aren't too badly injured, though I must admit it looks nasty enough."

Master Yoda turned his head and met Dyprio's eyes, as he appeared to be considering something. Finally, he turned back to Obi-Wan, and the boy sensed a surprising degree of turmoil within the tiny Master. The surprise was two-fold; in the first place, nobody in the Temple had better shielding than Master Yoda, so for an apprentice to be able to pick up on it was completely unexpected. And, secondly, the venerable Master was, almost always, the very essence of serenity; to engender such an extremely emotional response, the cause had to be enormous.

Yet turmoil it most certainly was, Obi-Wan realized. It was practically radiating from that compact little body.

"Concerned, are we, Padawan Kenobi," he said finally, and everyone within the room recognized the formality of the words.

Especially Obi-Wan, who fought off an impulse to gasp for breath.

The wording of the response was not open to interpretation. According to the rites of the Order, practiced throughout the history of the Jedi, his answer must consist of only six words. He managed to speak them, but the shock in him was palpable in the breathy quality of his voice. "How may I enlighten you, Master?"

Yoda regarded him calmly. "Know what I am asking, you do."

"Yes." A bare whisper.

"Protected, you must be, young one." Only someone who knew the elderly Master well could have sensed the degree of devastation he suffered in being forced to say these words.

"Please, don't, Master," begged Obi-Wan, barely audible, fear coiling in his throat and threatening to choke him. "Please, don't."

"Padawan Kenobi," said Ramal Dyprio, his voice firm, but not quite as stoic as he would have preferred.

"Yes, Master Dyprio."

"You do recognize the seriousness of this situation. Don't you?"

Obi-Wan looked into the swarthy Master's eyes, and Dyprio was rocked by the pain and misery he read in the Padawan's face.

Obi-Wan looked down at his hands that he had unconsciously knotted together, and found them clasped tight within Ciara's warm fingers. He spared the space of a heartbeat to send her a glance filled with love and gratitude, before turning to confront the two Masters.

"I understand what you're saying," he replied. "But I'm asking you to let it go. Your concern is appreciated, but unnecessary."

But Yoda was not prepared to give up so easily, and Obi-Wan knew at once that it was Master Yoda who had to be convinced. Dyprio, the Padawan believed, was acting out of Masterly concern for the welfare of an apprentice, as he would have for any apprentice. But, for Master Yoda, it was personal. For whatever reason, Obi-Wan had always held the diminutive Master's interest, and Qui-Gon? Well, there were no words to describe the relationship between Yoda and Qui-Gon. It was beyond words; it was what Obi-Wan had once hoped to share with his Master. The fact that, now, he never would, changed nothing.

"Exhausted, you are, young one," said the Master. "Working too hard, driving yourself. Dangerous, this is."

"I know, but . . ."

"When was the last time," interjected Master Ramal, "that Master Jinn taught a class?"

"He's the listed instructor for several classes." The words were carefully chosen.

"Padawan," said Yoda sternly. "Mincing words resolves nothing. He may be listed as the instructor, but you are teaching the classes. Just as you are handling all research assignments for your team and any other tasks that you can intercept, before they come to his attention."

"Master . . ."

"Obi-Wan," said Dyprio, "no one is faulting your devotion. But you are the one who is supposed to be learning. Not teaching."

"But I do learn, Master," said the Padawan. "Every day."

Yoda raised his hands abruptly. "Know, I do that you would destroy yourself in an attempt to save him. But this, I cannot allow. Action must be taken."

"Master, please," said Obi-Wan, reaching out to grasp the ancient Master's hands. "Don't do this."

"Padawan . . . ."

"Master," the boy's voice was desperate and desolate, "if a bird can't fly because its wing is broken and mangled, do you blame the bird? Or punish it?"

"Using your own metaphor," said Dyprio softly, not unkindly, "what happens to the offspring of that bird, if it cannot fly and gather food for them?"

Obi-Wan's voice was rock steady. "They learn to fly for themselves and gather their own."

Yoda huffed a sigh. "Ready for knighthood, you are not, Young one. And alone, you should not be."

"I'm not alone," the boy insisted.

Ramal Dyprio leaned forward and, very gently, laid a hand on Obi-Wan's uninjured shoulder. "Then where is he, Little One?"

Desperation tinted blue eyes solemn gray. "Master, please. These injuries of mine - they're nothing. He doesn't need to be here. If I needed him, he'd come. If I called him, he'd come."

"Obi-Wan," said Yoda softly, "your own words betray the problem. Why do you not call him? Hurt, you were. Not dying, true, but hurt enough. Believe that he would not care, do you?"

The boy covered his face with his hands, and his shoulders shook silently. "My wounds," he said, barely audible, "are nothing. He's the one who's truly wounded. Horribly wounded."

Ciara wrapped her arms around her friend, and pulled his head to her shoulder where her tears fell to kiss his face, joining his own. "Shhh, now," she crooned softly. "It's all right. It's all going to be all right."

He squeezed her hand in gratitude, then straightened and wiped his eyes. "But it's not," he said finally, firmly. "He's never going to be all right."

He faced Master Yoda and Master Dyprio and, for the first time, both read defiance in his eyes. "You mustn't interfere, Masters. I know I can't do much to help him, to make up for my mistakes. But I'm all he has. You can't keep me away from him."

"Padawan . . ." Yoda began.

"I won't go," said the boy, obviously aghast at his own temerity, but nevertheless refusing to back down. "I am the padawan learner of Master Qui-Gon Jinn. I will be a Jedi knight, when he decides I'm ready. If you wish to send us on separate assignments or individual missions, I'll abide by that. But he is my Master . . . my only Master. I'll have no other."

Ciara, heart thumping so loud she was sure it was audible throughout the Temple, moved to stand behind her friend, and encouraged him with her hand braced against his shoulder. Her eyes, so dark no pupil rim was discernible, regarded her Master with grave entreaty. 

Finally, Dyprio nodded, although with obvious reluctance. "I'll bring no formal charges," he said at last, "yet. But I won't stand by and see a fine young knight destroyed before he has a chance to complete his training."

"That won't happen, Master Ramal," replied Obi-Wan firmly, "but I thank you for your concern."

Surprisingly, Dyprio grinned. "Do you now?" he laughed. "You may live to regret your courtesy, Little One, for I'm not necessarily through with this. I'll be watching."

Yoda extended one tiny hand and laid it gently atop the padawan's head. "My mistake, this may be," he said gently. "Believed, I did, that the two of you would save each other. Your suffering, I never intended. My apology, I offer, Little One."

Obi-Wan smiled, his eyes alight with affection. "Please don't apologize, Master. He will make me a Jedi knight. That's all I ever asked. All I ever expected."

"But not all that you deserve."

That quirky sense of humor reared its head again. "Yeah, well, life sucks - in general."

Huge, citrus green eyes blinked, and a very small chortle escaped the tiny Master's lips. 

Leaving Ciara to help Obi-Wan back to his quarters, the elderly Master and the swarthy Corellian exited the healers' wing and started back to their respective apartments. As they walked, they exchanged glances, and both began to laugh softly.

"What a kid!" said Dyprio. 

"Indeed," replied Yoda. "What a kid, indeed."

"Jinn really doesn't deserve him."

"No," agreed Yoda, his laughter dying away. "None of us do. What he will do for the Jedi, none of us will ever be able to repay."

 

****************** ********************** ***************

 

Festival morning dawned brilliant, but cold, and pristine drifts of snow lingered on streets and terraces and in gardens until well into mid-day. The sunlight streaming through glass doors into the apartment of Master Qui-Gon Jinn and his padawan, was blindingly bright, reflecting off the unbroken blanket of crystals.

Obi-Wan stood immobile in the open doorway, his robe wrapped tight against the chill, his hands clenched around a mug of kaffa, allowing the warmth of its aroma to cloud his senses. Though the apartment was very well insulated, he could still hear the sound of excited voices in the corridor, from time to time. It was Festival, after all. A day of celebration.

The sound of a door opening behind him caused him to stiffen slightly, but he did not turn. For a very long time, now, he had developed a habit of allowing his Master to take the lead in determining the direction of their relationship on any given day. Some days passed without a single word being exchanged; yet there was no animosity between them. It just seemed sometimes that there was nothing for either to say. Obi-Wan accepted those days, as he accepted all others. He was the padawan; it was not his place to lay the ground rules.

Qui-Gon's step seemed a bit slow this morning, and Obi-Wan wondered if the aches of old scars and injuries might have been exacerbated by the cold temperatures. But he didn't ask, knowing that, if he did, the question would either be ignored or answered by rote.

On the dining table, the Padawan had laid out fresh-squeezed muja juice and wheat toast and the solja-berry conserve that was Qui-Gon's favorite. He had also brewed a pot of the herbal tea that his Master preferred. This he did every day; it was a part of his routine, and it required no acknowledgement from his Master. Nor was any forthcoming.

Except that this morning, there was a difference. Instead of pouring out his tea and seating himself at the table as was his custom, the Jedi Master brought his cup with him and came to stand at his padawan's side, and gazed out into the brilliance of the morning.

Obi-Wan, hardly daring to breathe, allowed himself to assume that the action might be sufficient to require a response. "Good morning, Master," he said softly.

Qui-Gon actually glanced at the boy; then glanced again, and reached out quickly to pull aside the tunic that concealed the huge bruise at the base of Obi-Wan's throat. The bruise actually looked worse this morning than it had last night, but the padawan had thought, obviously incorrectly, that he had covered it successfully.

"What is this, Padawan?" demanded the Master, obviously annoyed.

"It's nothing, Master. Just a minor mishap in the work-out room."

"And this occurred when?"

Bright, aquamarine eyes evaded those of midnight blue. "Yesterday, Master."

Qui-Gon reached out with both hands and forced the boy to turn to face him. He then examined the injury thoroughly, his arms braced against Obi-Wan's shoulders. The Padawan had an incredibly powerful impulse to throw himself forward within the circle of those arms, but he didn't, of course. It was all too easy for him to picture his Master's response to such an action, the immediate, painful recoil, the frown of disgust. "You should have called me," said the Master, finally, dropping his arms.

"It wasn't necessary," replied the Padawan, desperately ignoring the sting of tears behind his eyes.

Qui-Gon nodded and turned away. But then he stopped and turned back. "Thank you for the cup, Padawan. It's quite beautiful."

"You're welcome, Master."

"I didn't . . . I'm sorry. I've been . . pre-occupied, I suppose. I didn't think . . ."

"It's quite all right, Master," said the apprentice. "Don't concern yourself."

"I suppose you have plans, with your friends."

Obi-Wan sighed. He had no plans, but he knew that wasn't what his Master wanted to hear. Qui-Gon wanted what Qui-Gon always wanted, these days - to be alone, to be allowed to dwell, uninterrupted, in the realm of memory.

"Yes, Master. I'll be leaving soon. Can I do anything for you, before I go?"

Qui-Gon was staring down into the delicacy of his cup, his brow furrowed with thought. "Padawan, do you remember . . ."

Obi-Wan inhaled quickly. Was it possible? Was Qui-Gon actually going to include him in whatever reverie he was exploring today? Would he actually . . .

"Never mind," said the Master. "It was just a stray thought."

Fortunately, Qui-Gon was not looking at his apprentice at that moment, or else he might have noticed, even in his constant state of distraction, the look of terrible pain that crossed the boy's features. 

Obi-Wan walked to the door, drawing his cape tight about him. 

As he made his exit, he turned back for just a moment, and almost sobbed at the vignette laid out before him: Qui-Gon Jinn, extraordinarily powerful Jedi Master, renowned throughout the galaxy as a defender of justice and promoter of peace, sat staring into nothingness, his hands trembling as he pushed back a stray lock of silver-threaded brown hair, his eyes lost and empty.

"Happy Festival, Master," Obi-Wan whispered, as he closed the door.

As he had expected, there was no reply.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

TBC


	3. Missions of Mercy

Chapter 3: Missions of Mercy

 

It was well past midday when Master Qui-Gon Jinn roused himself sufficiently to notice that he was marginally hungry, and congratulated himself accordingly. Sometimes - many times, if he were to be brutally honest - he simply forgot about such mundane pursuits as eating. He often ate only because his padawan set a plate of food in front of him, frequently not even noticing what he was eating. It was merely an automatic function, just as the performance of his Jedi duties was now more by rote than reason.

He had become an automaton, somewhere along the way. Adequate in performance, of course, but uninspired. His eyes widened briefly. And uninspiring? If so, it was not a particularly beneficial situation for his apprentice. Masters were supposed to inspire their padawans, to instill in them a profound and bottomless loyalty to Jedi traditions and philosophy.

Had he, in the process of losing his humanity, failed his apprentice?

He pictured Obi-Wan in his mind, noted the clarity of those sea-change eyes, the determination indicated by the set of that strong, young jaw, the quickness of the smile that transformed the entire face. Noted, too, the strength and agility of that growing body. No. Whatever else he might have done, he had not failed Obi-Wan . . . yet; the boy walked only in the Light. There was no trace of the Darkside within him.

But there were traces of other things, distressing things, that the Master didn't really want to see. But he had not yet progressed so far in his quest to sever his connection to the quickness of the human spirit that he could refuse to acknowledge the sources of such distress. Obi-Wan certainly looked the part of a typical young human; the Master had frequently heard his apprentice described as "beautiful", by sources as widely varied as Master Adi Gallia (whose actual remark, if he recalled correctly, was that, if the padawan got any more beautiful, he was going to have to beat his admirers off with a lightsaber); Jedi knight Garz Veroq, who hailed from Ord Durask where same sex marriages were the norm rather than the exception; all the way down to young initiates, of all species, who seemed to spend a lot of time heaving huge sighs and batting long eyelashes whenever Obi-Wan was in the vicinity. Even Master Yaddle had been known to comment that "young Kenobi was entirely too drop-dead gorgeous for his own good". 

Qui-Gon smiled briefly, remembering that his padawan had overheard that remark, and had looked as if all he wanted out of life at that moment was to have the floor open up and swallow him.

Even Master Mace Windu - probably the Jedi least likely to notice and comment on such superficial attributes - had once remarked to Qui-Gon that any young man who looked like Kenobi and sounded like Kenobi should at least have the common decency to have the personality of a slug, all things considered.

Master Qui-Gon recognized the justification for the comments; Obi-Wan really was extraordinarily beautiful, in a totally masculine way. And, as the years went by, any suggestion of prettiness, of which he had also been accused during early adolescence, would gradually fade away. But the problem was not in the way the boy looked; the problem was in what lay beneath those looks.

His padawan had once been quick to smile and quick to laugh and quickest of all to see the humor in his own human condition. 

Obi-Wan didn't laugh any more.

Nor, came the sudden realization, did he cry.

Qui-Gon watched squares of sunlight creep across the floor as the day matured. When was the last time, he wondered, that Obi-Wan had displayed any kind of emotion before his Master?

He reached once more for that image of the boy's face and found that he could not quite visualize either that winsome smile that he had once so adored, or the welling of tears in those expressive eyes that, some years earlier, could so easily tug at his heart.

He looked down at the cup, cradled in his massive hands. The tea dregs were long since cold, but still he clutched the cup, as if to set it down might be to relinquish it for all time. 

_It's just a cup._

A gift from his Padawan.

_Who's just an ordinary Padawan. Isn't he?_

Abruptly, tears blurred his vision. He ought to set the cup down, but realized abruptly that he couldn't see well enough, right now, to be certain that he set it firmly on the table, rather than on the edge where it might fall and shatter. He would just hold on to it - for a while.

He was still sitting - holding the cup - several hours later when there was a brisk knock at the door.

**************** *********************** ******************

The sound level within the section of the Temple designated as the Creche would have been alarming to most of the knights and Masters who lived in the residential levels, and never ventured into the area reserved for the very young. Massive, multi-functional sound-proofing had been utilized throughout the entire area to be sure that no one beyond the Creche boundaries was unnecessarily disturbed by the mass mayhem. And those who actually worked within the Creche were long since inured to the decibel level.

Obi-Wan Kenobi, who was finally developing his own tolerance for the din, believed that the Creche Masters and Novitiate attendants were among the Jedi's greatest unsung heroes, as much for their level of tolerance as for the dedication they exhibited, for no Force sensitive child was ever strong-armed into a pre-determined mold. The most sacred responsibility for those who worked directly with Jedi children was to encourage whatever gifts the Force might choose to bestow, and to allow the children to discover these gifts for themselves. Which led to some extremely interesting adventures.

As in the case of the twi'lek toddler who announced, at age three, that her lekku were actually vestigial wings, and that she could fly. Which, as it turned out, she could, to some degree. But allowing her to - literally - test her 'wings' within the safety of a well-padded, specially prepared chamber, while preventing her from simply leaping from a balcony on the 128th floor, had proven to be a unique, not-to-mention terrifying, challenge.

There were Jedi children who could not yet speak full sentences who could compose and play complex music on a variety of instruments; others who grasped scientific principles far beyond the understanding of most adults, like the young padawan who had so explosively rearranged the chem lab some weeks earlier, while still well below the age of being able to dress themselves. Some exhibited extraordinary mental communication skills while still in diapers. There was never any way to predict how each child's gifts might develop.

Every day was an adventure.

For Obi-Wan, not only was every day an adventure, but every day was a source of endless wonder, of something outside his own existence to grab and hold his attention, and a means of exhausting himself sufficiently to allow him to sleep without an over-abundance of nightmare.

On any given day, the noise level was enough to set teeth on age.

But this wasn't any given day; this was Festival.

Obi-Wan couldn't hear his own thoughts, but, since he didn't really have any that he cared to hear, he decided that it didn't matter anyway. Besides, he had no time to worry about it.

When he had come striding though the entrance, he had barely completed five steps into the room before he was surrounded by screaming, laughing, almost hysterical children.

Welcoming cries ranged from "Obi's here, Obi's here" to "Obi-Obi-Obi-Obi" to the simplest, most heartfelt (not to mention, loudest) of all, "Obi-Mine", this last from a two-year-old Corellian boy with eyes as black as dark matter and a smile brighter than a supernova. Jorgal was his name, and Obi-Wan was his favorite person in the entire Temple - or the entire galaxy, for that matter.

Having hoisted the tiny Corellian to his shoulders, as was his custom, Obi-Wan smiled his greeting to creche Master Lao-Miel.

The white-haired Mandellian's frown was belied by the sparkle in her eyes. "You're spoiling him," she accused with a glance at Jorgal, who was too busy crowing with delight to notice her.

Obi-Wan reached up and readjusted the boy's position so that he was more secure. "It's a dirty job," he replied, with a grin, "but somebody's got to do it."

Lao impulsively reached out and adjusted Obi-Wan's padawan braid. "What are you doing here, Padawan? It's Festival."

"Exactly," he answered, never missing a beat. "I had to come check on my favorite people."

"Favorite people, favorite people, favorite people . . ." The chant was immediately taken up around the chamber.

From an adjacent room, adult voices were lifted to rise above the din. "Let me guess," shouted Padawan Diora Fleur - Lao's apprentice, "Obi-Wan's here."

"Either that," came a male voice - Novitiate Master Boman Waskith - "or there's a riot in progress."

"Do not tell me," said Lao, not even trying to quiet the children, "that you came over here to eat stuffed tarkling and palakin pie with a bunch of babies. Not even you are that much of a masochist."

At this point, Jorgal laid his pointed little chin atop Obi-Wan's head and announced, "Obi's a mas-kist."

"Not exactly," he replied, lifting the tiny boy high in the air, before depositing him back on the floor. The toss in the air was greeted with a shriek of delight, but the trip to the floor brought on a frown.

Immediately, Obi-Wan was on his knees, peering into black eyes, almost - but not quite - welling with tears. "Did you get a Festival present, Little One?" he asked quickly.

All thought of tears was gone immediately, as the padawan intended, as the boy ran to retrieve his bright new toy to display to his favorite Jedi.

As Diora came whirling into the room from the adjacent dining area, a warm smell of spices and roast tarkling wafted around her. "Smells wonderful though," Obi observed.

"Flattery," said Diora, a blue-haired Gajalak from Dantooine who weighed over 400 pounds if she weighed an ounce, "will get _you_ anywhere." She dropped a quick kiss on the crown of Obi-Wan's head as she navigated around scurrying children. For an individual of such astonishing girth, she moved with surprising grace and agility.

"So what are you doing here?" insisted Lao, as she reached up and plucked a tiny Bothan from the top of a bookcase.

"Beware K'hiria Melasians, bearing gifts," he replied, retrieving a tiny, brightly wrapped box from the pocket of his cloak. There was one for her, one for Diora, and a third - slightly different - for Boman.

A tiny hand plucked impatiently at his trousers. Jorgal was back, a miniature hoverboard clutched in one hand.

"Wow," said Obi, kneeling again, "I was four before I was allowed to have one of those. You know how to use it?"

Tiny eyes, tears welling, were downcast. "Almost."

Obi-Wan lifted the tiny chin, with a tiny cleft, until black eyes rose to meet brilliant blue. "Tomorrow," said the Padawan, "I'll teach you."

"Promise?"

"Absolutely."

Once more the eyes fell.

"What's wrong, Jorgi?"

A quick sniffle.

"Jorgi?"

"Did you . . . ."

"Did I what?"

Silence. Another quick sniffle.

At last, Obi-Wan could stand it no longer, and the brightness of his smile was like the sun breaking through cloud cover. "Did I . . . bring you a present?"

Head still bowed, but nodding slightly.

Once more, the padawan lifted that sweet, little face. "Have I ever _not_ brought you a present?"

Jorgal frowned, not quite sure how to respond to that particular syntax.

Obi-Wan laughed, and moved quickly back to the doorway, retrieving a large, brightly colored bag from the corridor.

Lao looked at the bag with obvious suspicion, as it appeared that something within it was moving.

"What have you done?" she asked quickly, knowing, no matter what the bag held, it was already too late to forbid whatever it was. 

"Relax," said Obi. "I promise it's not Mon Calamarian ferrets or Corellian kitlings, or even Namosian butterflies."

"Okay," she replied suspiciously. "Then what is it?"

With a flourish, Obi-Wan ripped open the bag and tossed the contents into the air.

Lao flinched. "Repulso-balls," she cried, eyes closed tight. " Please do not tell me you brought every one of them a repulso-ball. "

"Okay," he said with a grin. "I won't tell you."

But she couldn't really hear him, over the delighted shrieks of the children, as they leapt to catch the balls, which, of course, leapt to avoid their grasping fingers.

What had been merely chaos before became instant pandemonium.

The children's enthusiasm appeared, at first, to be endless, but, after several minutes, as if at some pre-arranged signal, several of them, led by tiny Jorgal, broke off their pursuit of the balls to seek out the giftbearer. Within seconds, the repulso-balls, no longer being pursued, settled into stillness, hovering just above the floor, as all the toddlers raced to join the group. Obi-Wan went down under a barrage of tiny bodies, all intent on getting as close to him as they could, and holding on as long as possible.

Lao and Diora, having given up on subduing their charges until the new excitement settled somewhat, stood by and exchanged fond glances.

"By the gods," said Lao softly, "how they love him!"

Diora sniffled quietly and whispered, "Somebody ought to drag that bonehead Master of his down here, and show him what's right under his nose."

"Diora!" cautioned Lao.

"OK, OK," replied the apprentice. "Far be it from me, a lowly student, to notice that a certain Jedi Master has his head up his . . ."

"Diora, that's quite enough!" But, although the words were sharp enough, there was no genuine reproof in them. For, basically, Lao agreed. Someone did need to do something to open Qui-Gon Jinn's eyes, before it was too late. Lao had known Obi-Wan Kenobi since he was no bigger than little Jorgal; had watched him grow into the fine, young Jedi sprawled now on her creche floor, overrun by tiny, wriggling little bodies, and knew, beyond any doubt, that there was no more promising padawan in the entire knighthood. Few, if any, were his equal, in potential or in purity. But there was a great danger here, for his compassion and the depth of his feelings made him extremely vulnerable to hurt or betrayal.

Qui-Gon was playing with fire, and she wasn't sure he still had sufficient instinct to keep from being burned, or from burning down the house that sheltered him. Obi-Wan needed to be a Jedi; he knew nothing else. But the Jedi also needed Obi-Wan. Lao, unusually strong in the unifying Force, had known that for many years. It was a knowledge she had shared with only one other individual; she had mentioned it - once - to Master Yoda, only to discover that it was something he already knew.

Obi-Wan was, by this time, smothering with laughter, besieged by tiny bodies that were absolutely no respecters of persons or dignity. When he finally managed to stagger to his feet, children hung from every possible handhold.

"I have got to go," he said loudly, still laughing. "Unhand me, ye scurvy varmints."

Renewed peals of delighted laughter, as Jorgal managed to latch his arms around the Padawan's throat, giving absolutely no indication that he ever intended to let go.

"Master Lao, help!" he yelled finally.

"Oh, now you want my input," she laughed at him. "I didn't hear you asking my help when you selected their gifts. I should let them keep you as a pet, which is exactly what they want to do, you know."

Master Boman, at that moment, entered from the dining area, carrying a plate piled high with sliced tarkling, and savory dressings and assorted vegetables. "You will eat," he announced, advancing on Obi-Wan. "A little birdie (who shall remain nameless, but who runs the Medical Wing with an iron fist) would have my head on a platter if I let you get out of here without eating."

"No, honestly, I can't," protested the Padawan. "I'm expected someplace else."

"Have you said hello to the initiates?" asked Boman.

"No, I'm really . . . "

"Do you want to break their hearts? On Festival, of all days?"

Obi-Wan sighed and smiled simultaneously. "Five minutes," he said. "Honestly, that's all I can spare."

Unperturbed, Lao picked children off him like plucking fruits from a tree. Jorgal was the last to go, and - in typical Jorgal fashion - clung the hardest. At the very last, he pressed his forehead against Obi-Wan's cheek and whispered, "I love you, Obi-mine."

Only by virtue of a herculean effort was the padawan able to release his hold on the boy. "I love you, too, Little One," he replied, audible only to Jorgal.

He turned to follow Boman into the novitiate wing, where slightly older children were housed, but paused when he heard his name called again, very softly.

Jorgal was still staring at him, eyes dark and inquisitive.

"What is it, Jorgi?"

The toddler mumbled something inarticulate.

Obi-Wan knelt and leaned forward until his ear was just brushing the boy's mouth. "Tell me again," he said softly.

"What if I'm scared?" It was so soft, it barely qualified as a whisper.

For a moment, the padawan was uncertain of the boy's meaning. Then it came to him, and he wrapped the child in his arms. "Of the hoverboard," he replied, knowing he was right.

The only response was a quick nod.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do," said Obi-Wan, very gently. "It's just a silly toy. If you want to do something else, we'll find something else to do, together. OK?"

The dark eyes were glistening suspiciously. "You don't think I'm a scaredy-kitling?"

"Are you kidding me? You're the bravest kid I know."

"Weally?"

Obi-Wan absolutely would not allow himself to laugh. "Really. Now go enjoy your dinner, and I'll see you later. OK?"

But it seemed the child was not - quite - done yet. "Tonight?" he asked.

"What about tonight?"

"You come wead me a story, and tuck me in?"

Obi-Wan laughed and hugged the child to him. "Absolutely. Now, I really gotta go. OK?"

With a smile that was almost smug - he had, after all, achieved his objectives - the little boy turned and ran back to his pursuit of his repulso-ball.

Master Lao laughed at the rueful expression on Obi-Wan's face. "How does it feel," she asked, still grinning, "to be out-maneuvered by a two-year-old?"

"Like I've just been conned by a pro."

She once more reached out to adjust his braid. "He reminds me of you," she said softly. "You could have charmed the birds out of the trees, if you'd wanted to."

Something dark and dreadful moved in his eyes, but it was gone before she could identify it. But, as he walked away, she realized that she probably did know what it was, after all. What she had seen was the ghost of memory - the ghost of the times when a precocious toddler with silken ginger hair and starbright eyes of crystal blue had reached out to a towering Jedi Master, and, in so doing, had planted himself firmly in that Jedi's heart, staking a claim that should have proved to be virtually undeniable. Should have - but hadn't, after all.

When he was with the children, Obi-Wan seemed to regain all the warmth and compassion and loving gentleness that had always been a part of him, but, otherwise, he was a pale husk of the young man he had once been. 

Master Lao felt a mournful iciness grip her heart. She had lost 'children' before. The ones whom she nurtured all became her children, and each was unique - irreplaceable. But none more so than the one who had just walked away from her, the one with a charming smile on his lips, that almost - but not quite - succeeded in concealing the bitter loneliness he felt inside.

Diora was right. Qui-Gon Jinn needed a good, swift kick in the behind, and Lao thought she might just volunteer to be the one to give it to him.

 

********************* ********************* **************************

 

For a moment, Qui-Gon debated ignoring the knock at the door, but then he stretched out with the Force, to determine the identity of the caller and sighed. As the knock came again, he acknowledged that he might as well answer immediately, for this caller would not be deterred. No matter what.

Master Yoda's eyes were bright as prisms in the slant of afternoon sunlight, pouring through the terrace doors, as he looked around the apartment's interior.

"Out is your Padawan," he said, not really asking.

"Yes. He had plans."

"Um, hmm."

Qui-Gon tucked his hands deeper into the sleeves of his robe. "I was just about to go up to the cafeteria. Would you like to join me, Master?"

"Over-cooked tarkling, I have no appetite for."

"It's not so . . . . ."

"Finished mid-term grading, have you?"

Qui-Gon's confusion was obvious in his face. "Mid-term?"

"Yes. With seven classes, it no doubt requires much of your time."

"I'm sorry, Master. I don't understand. What are you referring to?"

The tiny Master turned away from his study of the traffic patterns beyond the terrace, and regarded his ex-apprentice with baleful eyes. "Know, do you, that all Jedi Masters are required to teach padawan classes while they are in residence at the Temple?"

Qui-Gon drew himself in and up, and managed to look down his nose, at nothing. "I seem to recall some such archaic rule."

"Archaic, perhaps it is, but still in effect."

Qui-Gon inhaled sharply. "Why was I not informed?"

Yoda perched on the edge of the sofa. "Informed, you were. Intercepted, more than likely, was the message."

"Then someone should have . . . "

"Not necessary was it. The classes were taught - all of them."

"I don't understand. I never . . . "

"An excellent teacher, your padawan has become."

Qui-Gon's gaze sharpened. "Obi-Wan has been teaching in my place?"

"Ummm, and very successfully. He has even managed to find a way to convince the young females to stop mooning over him and do their classwork."

"Mooning over him?"

Yoda thumped his gimmer stick sharply. "An echo, is there, in here? Repeating myself, I do not enjoy."

"I'm sorry, Master. I'm just . . . confused, I suppose. Why would he take this upon himself? He never mentioned it."

"But he wouldn't, would he, if his aim was to spare you the necessity of doing something you don't want to do?"

Qui-Gon sighed. "Perhaps he was right. I am pleased that he has done so well with it."

"Pleased?" the tiny Master said sharply. "Pleased, are you? Pleased you might be to know that, while he is teaching seven different classes, he is also enrolled in six more, along with three research projects directly linked to your last mission and two others for one upcoming. Plus, he volunteers his time in the Creche and several independent charities. And, once he's finished with all that, he works out with his lightsaber, sometimes until the middle of the night, usually alone."

"Industrious, isn't he?" The reply was, just marginally, too glib.

Huge citrus green eyes blinked, and only someone who had known the diminutive Jedi for many years would have realized that he was trying to suppress a prodigious rage. "Chemistry, he teaches. Very gifted in the sciences is our Obi, and eager to encourage young ones with similar gifts. So eager that, three weeks ago, he almost got himself killed when one of his proteges got a little carried away in an experiment, and blew both of them across a lab and through a parasteel window, on the 89th floor. Had Obi-Wan been knocked out by the blast - as the student was - or too stunned to access the Force, both would have died. But, of course, all of this is beneath your notice. Correct?"

Qui-Gon was silent, gazing at the cityscape beyond the terrace windows.

"Padawan," said Yoda, sighing deeply, "do you even know your apprentice any more?"

Unexpectedly, something that sounded suspiciously like a sob escaped Qui-Gon's lips, as he covered his eyes with a trembling hand, and whispered something unintelligible.

"Repeat yourself, you will," said the old Master sharply. "When eight hundred years old you are, you will not hear so well either."

Qui-Gon straightened and turned to face his Master. "It's too late," he said, the firmness of his words belied by the terrible emptiness in his eyes.

"Ummmm, from your perspective, perhaps. But, unfortunately, yours is not the final word. Unless . . ." he paused and peered into Qui-Gon's eyes, seeking something he clearly hoped not to find. "Unless you are prepared to dismiss him from the Jedi. At his age, dismissal by a Master would be tantamount to expulsion."

Qui-Gon inhaled sharply. "Nobody said anything about dismissing him. He deserves to become a knight, and I will see to it that he succeeds in that, at least."

"At least," said Yoda. "Still believe, you do, that he deserves only the least you need give him."

"Master . . ."

"Come with me, you will."

"Where are we going?"

"Out."

"But . . ."

"No buts. Make it official Council business, I will, if necessary. For, one way or another, you will accompany me."

Finally, Qui-Gon sighed and acquiesced. He really had no alternative, for, though it happened seldom, when the tiny green Master demanded obedience, there was virtually no one in the Order with enough courage - or gall - to defy him.

The towering Master adjusted his cloak on his huge frame and, with exaggerated caution, placed his new cup in the center of the dining table. He stared at it for a fleeting moment, noting its graceful lines and lovely color gradations. Then he chided himself for displaying such sentiment.

It was just a cup, an ordinary cup.

From his padawan, his ordinary padawan.

It was, therefore, completely ridiculous for him to observe that his hands, without it, suddenly felt too cold, too empty.

Ridiculous.

Nevertheless, as he followed his diminutive Master out the door, he paused long enough to take a look back, to be absolutely certain that it was placed securely in the middle of the table - where it would be safe.

 

***************** **************** ****************

 

The open plaza that fronted the Jedi Temple had been cleared of snow by the time Masters Yoda and Qui-Gon reached the pedestrian level, and the temperature was on the rise, but a cold wind still gusted periodically, stirring the last remnants of holiday snow from eaves and abutments where it had accumulated. Qui-Gon repeatedly stole glances at the elderly Master, obviously perplexed and confused. Master Yoda seldom left the Temple except on official Council business, and he never walked anywhere. But he was walking now, and fairly briskly for a tiny little troll. This last, of course, was Qui-Gon's own silent observation; few indeed were those who ever worked up sufficient nerve to use that term to the Council leader's face. 

"Where are we going?" Qui-Gon asked, for the third time.

"Impatient, are you," came the response, completely uninformative, of course. "Find out in good time, you will."

When the tiny Master led the way to one of the transport shafts that led deep into the sublevels of the city, Qui-Gon actually wondered if Master Yoda might have taken leave of his senses. Even Jedi seldom visited the lower levels of Coruscant without arranging for back-up in advance. "Master . . "

"Dawdle not," snapped Yoda, entering the lift car. "Much there is for you to see, and little time."

Finally, with another huge sigh, the tall Jedi took his place beside his Master. As the cage began its descent - rattling ominously - Qui-Gon concentrated on not noticing the wealth of graffiti that covered every available surface within the lift. Yoda, on the other hand, seemed to study the various colorful messages, and, once or twice, puzzle over their meaning. Qui-Gon closed his eyes, devoutly hoping that he would not be asked to translate.

Their journey into the underworld, for that was surely where they wound up, took almost an hour, in transfers between lifts and transfer points and shuttle stations. When they finally arrived, they were in an area that had not seen natural sunlight in centuries, and the denizens of this place, perhaps best described as the underbelly of the beast, had reason to be thankful for the lack of illumination, knowing that some things are better left unseen and unacknowledged.

Yoda led the way, finally, to a broad door bearing faded, almost illegible lettering. The pallid light of a street lamp, only partly functional, allowed Qui-Gon to pick out the words - barely. 

"Dulcinea Street Mission?" he asked, gazing down at his Master.

"Ummm. Jedi disciplines, we will need to use," said the tiny Master. "Best if we are not detected."

Qui-Gon glanced around, distaste plain in his eyes. "That certainly shouldn't be a problem, here."

Unexpectedly, Yoda smiled. "So certain, are you? Only the weak-minded would occupy such a place, hmmm?"

The tall Master had the grace to blush. "I am sorry, My Master. That was an incredibly arrogant remark."

"Yes, it was. And, as you will soon learn, completely unjustified."

Taking a moment to center themselves, they both accessed the Force and used it to deflect the attention or notice of anyone whom they might encounter. Then they proceeded into the ramshackle building.

Qui-Gon was surprised to find that, inside, the Mission was somewhat more presentable than its exterior indicated.

To maintain their camouflage, he reached out through the Force to contact his tiny Master. _"Is this place truly a mission?"_

_"A mission, it is, and a shelter for those who have no other place to go."_

They proceeded down a hallway, toward a larger room where there were many voices. As they neared the end of the corridor, Qui-Gon glanced at a large poster that someone had tacked on the wall - and stopped in his tracks.

_"What! What is this?"_

Master Yoda turned and examined the cause of Qui-Gon's shock. The drawing was not entirely accurate; the eyes were entirely too dark, the hair too long, and the face too round, but the figure was nevertheless immediately recognizable. It was Obi-Wan's face, wearing a smile that was a shade too wide. The words at the bottom were printed in brilliant crimson. "Win a day with your very own Jedi Padawan."

_"A contest."_ Yoda's reply was completely serene.

_"He's allowing himself to be auctioned off - like a slave?"_

Large green eyes blinked slowly. _"An old poster, this is. Already completed was this fundraiser."_

_"Fundraiser! Master, he's a Jedi. This is completely . . ."_

_"Raised over 25,000 daktaris, they did. Enough to operate the mission for over two months."_

_"But . . ."_

_"A worthy cause, it is, Padawan."_

_"But . . ."_

The old Master's gaze grew stern. _"Quiet, and observe."_

They emerged from the corridor, Qui-Gon still reeling from the shock of his discovery, and found themselves in a huge dining hall. A motley assortment of tables, of all types and sizes and configurations, were spread around the room, and all were fully occupied - even overcrowded - as new arrivals wandered around, looking for seating. At one end of the large rectangular chamber, a battered metal counter stretched across the entire width of the room, supporting a variety of serving dishes - from huge soup kettles to platters piled high with breads and sliced meats to deep pans of bright vegetables simmering over warming units. Behind the counter, a group of hard-working volunteers labored with surprisingly cheerful demeanors, and beyond them, double doors - constantly swinging - led to a huge kitchen.

_"I still don't see what we're doing here."_ Qui-Gon's tone was definitely grumpy.

At that exact moment, the kitchen doors swung open under the impact of a strong, young body, clad in faded dungarees and a non-descript t-shirt, which bore a legend that Qui-Gon decided quickly he did not want to decipher. The first two words - and the accompanying graphics - were more than sufficient.

Obi-Wan's muscles flexed as he manhandled a huge platter, heaped with a mountain of hot, crusty breads and rolls. As he shoved it into place on the serving line, a tall, black-skinned woman with bright green hair leaned across the counter, grabbed his braid and yanked his head forward so she could plant a quick kiss on his nose. The boy laughed, unperturbed by her familiarity, and hurried back into the kitchen. 

Within the next ten minutes, he had made a dozen trips back and forth, been hailed with hugs and kisses and occasional slaps on his behind (and one not-so-circumspect pinch), good-naturedly grabbed and tackled by a variety of teen-aged boys, and, most poignantly of all, shyly approached by several young children, each of whom seemed to demand - and get - a moment of individual attention. It was, all in all, an impressive performance.

Qui-Gon Jinn, ever articulate and renowned for his glib tongue, was stricken dumb, and Master Yoda chose to allow the scene to speak for itself.

As the apprentice hoisted a huge cauldron of thick, fragrant soup up onto the counter, a young woman with a cloud of dark hair and huge, gray eyes emerged from the kitchen and came to stand at his side. The two spoke for a moment, then laughed softly together, before Obi-Wan went back to the kitchen, and the young woman came out of the serving area into the dining room. As she did so, Qui-Gon was surprised to note that she walked slowly, sweeping the area before her with a white cane.

The noise level in the huge room was intense. Yet it was not unpleasant, for the overall atmosphere was one of friendliness and camaraderie. In this respect, Qui-Gon thought, it was very different from any other charity kitchen he had ever visited. Beings forced to accept charity, though usually grateful for help, were seldom inclined to laughter. Yet there was laughter here - quiet and restrained, it was true - but laughter nevertheless.

The black-skinned, green-haired female, a Tomarsian, if Qui-Gon was not mistaken, greeted the young woman with a hug and a remark which, judging by the immediate blush that tinted the young woman's face and the burst of good-natured laughter around them, must have been of the ribald variety.

"Behave yourself, Virek," said the young woman. "You'll embarrass him."

"Embarrass him?" theTomarsian cried, laughing loudly. "Honey, if he really wants to warm the cockles of an old woman's heart, he can start in my bed. And I'll bet my last daktari he hasn't got a thing to be embarrassed about."

Another woman, at the same table, blond, green-eyed, probably very pretty before spice addiction had ruined her face, chuckled. "It's the damned Jedi, Honey. They always scoop up the cute ones."

The dark-haired young woman came toward the Jedi Masters, her cane tapping before her. At the table behind her, a third woman, with improbably scarlet hair, winked broadly, drew her arm back and threw something at the light fixture above their table, resulting in a distinct clink - a pop - a flash - and the death of a light bulb.

"Oh, Jari," said the blonde archly, "we need a new light bulb over here."

The dark-haired woman paused, and a smile twitched on her lips. "You did that on purpose."

"Did what on purpose, Darlin'?" The woman called Virek was the soul of innocence.

"OK, we'll just wait for Hamilek to change it. He's tall enough not to need a ladder."

"But I can't even see my wonderful soup," said blondie, "and Hamilek won't be back for ages."

Dark-haired Jari suppressed a small sigh. "Obi," she called, as he came through the swinging doors, bearing a huge kaffa urn, "could you change a bulb over here for me?"

The young Jedi glanced to the table where the offending bulb was located, and grinned. "Again?" he said, retrieving a long tube from a storage bin. When he approached the table, he put his hands on his hips. "What are you ladies doing to our lights? This is the third one this month."

Blondie rolled blowsy green eyes. "Must be our electric personalities, Luv."

Obi-Wan waited while the ladies obligingly moved their trays aside; then he sprang to the table-top and reached up to remove the spent bulb. Three pairs of hands tentatively reached to explore areas best left unexplored, but all were frozen in place, with one wave of the Padawan's hand. With a smile, he looked down at them. "Don't you girls ever give up?" But there was no ill will in the words or in the young man who spoke them.

The women collapsed in laughter. "One of these days, Sweet Thing," said the Tomarsian, "you're going to forget to put your hex on. And, besides, even if we can't touch, we can still enjoy the view."

"My, my, my, there's just something about a man in dungarees," said the blonde.

Obi-Wan completed the bulb change, jumped lightly to the floor, and executed a perfect bow as the ladies applauded enthusiastically.

_"I do not understand any of this._ " Qui-Gon's tone was glacial. _"Why did he allow that garish display? He could have changed that bulb without ever leaving his place on the serving line."_

_"Of course, he could. But observe the demeanor of the persons at that table, if you will."_

The women in question were all smiling and animated, and obviously enjoying their meal.

_"It's all part of an act. Is that what you're telling me?"_

The tiny Master turned crystalline eyes to gaze at his former apprentice. _"I'm telling you that he knows more about giving people what they need than you ever have."_

_"I do not play games."_

A slow blink. _"More's the pity."_

The dark-haired young woman - Jari, the Tomarsian had called her - now stood right beside them, her head tilted at a gentle angle, as if listening.

"Your camouflage is leaking, Master," she said softly.

"Ummmm,- as usual, with you. Good evening, Mistress Jarielle."

"Master Yoda," she responded. "Who's your friend?"

The elderly Master paused briefly. "Jarielle Fer'mia, meet Qui-Gon Jinn."

Instantly, something flared in her face, something vaguely feral. "Obi-Wan's Master," she said.

"Yes," said Qui-Gon. "Good evening, Madame."

"I'm surprised," she replied coolly. "You've never honored us with your presence before. Why now?"

He studied her face, and noted that, even though her eyes were obviously sightless, they still managed to window her resentment. "I was not aware of my padawan's interest here."

"Interest? Is that what you call it?" She laughed. "Obsession would probably be a more appropriate term."

"He's here often, then?"

Her smile was an indictment. "Shouldn't you already know the answer to that?"

"Obi-Wan is not a child. His time is his own."

Her sigh was poignant. "No. He's not a child. Children, by nature, tend to be self-centered . . . and cruel, sometimes. Obi-Wan is the most generous man I've ever known."

"He is a Jedi," he said, as if that explained everything.

But, to his surprise, she disagreed. "First, he is a man, and that's what counts down here. The Jedi exist on another plane from these people. What do they know of the Force, when it's a struggle to just put one foot in front of the other - for one more day? Your padawan understands that. Do you?"

Qui-Gon glanced at his tiny Master, and saw that Yoda was inordinately pleased with the direction of this conversation. Qui-Gon, however, was growing annoyed. He had, after all, spent many years of his life bringing aid and comfort to victims of disaster.

As if reading his mind, Jarielle continued, "I'm sure you've been the big time mover and shaker in disaster relief for countless catastrophes throughout the galaxy. A very noble profession, being Jedi. But would you understand, as your padawan does, that playing along in a harmless little game with a bunch of desperately needy old crones might just serve to lighten the darkness they live in, for a little while? Would you have it in you to do that, without regard for your dignity or your image? He does, every day."

The tall Master's eyes widened. He was not so removed from the realm of real people. Was he? "I haven't thought about it," he admitted, finally.

"Yes," she said softly, very gently. "It appears there are many things you haven't thought about. Perhaps you should meditate on it."

If the circumstances had been different, he might have laughed. Obi-Wan, during better days, had been known to observe that his Master was the absolute, bar-none, indisputable champion meditator of all time.

"You don't like me very much, do you?" he asked calmly.

She inclined her head. "I don't like anyone who abuses children."

"Abuses . . . " he sputtered. "I have never. . ."

"Only every day of his life," she interrupted. "He may not technically be a child any more, but he's still carrying all the wounds. And yet, this extraordinary young man - this luminescent person - finds it within himself to give all he has and all he is to anyone who needs."

"Nevertheless . . ."

"Do you know how much he loves you? Do you know what he said to me one day? He said that he was privileged just to be allowed to be near you. That he had failed you terribly, and that it was an indication of your great kindness that you did not have him expelled from the Jedi."

"I would never do that."

"Funny," she replied, sightless eyes flaming. "He doesn't seem to know that, but I guess it would be too much to hope that you might tell him. Of course, I suppose I should be grateful to you. So should we all. For if it weren't for you driving him away, he would never have found his way to us. We need him here, apparently a lot more than you do. Did you know that he teaches self-defense classes to these teen-agers down here? And it's a pretty good bet that the skills he gives them will save at least some of their lives."

"He's very gifted," he managed to remark, as she paused for breath.

"The noble Jedi," she said, not quite sneering, "may be the protectors of peace and justice for most of the galaxy, but, down here, it's just another word. Or it was. Until one of your own made a difference."

She stopped finally, and poised her head expectantly. When he remained silent, she sighed.

His tone was uncertain. "What is it that you expect me to say?"

"Stupid of me, I suppose," she answered. "Knowing the history, as I do."

"What?"

"I always hoped that he was wrong, that you really did care for him, but just had trouble expressing it. He's so admirable, I thought surely . . ."

"What?" He was rapidly losing his patience.

"Waiting, she is," announced Master Yoda, suddenly deciding to remind them of his presence, "for you to say you're proud of him."

Qui-Gon looked annoyed. "But that goes without saying."

She leaned forward and tapped him on the chest. "No. It doesn't."

"Master?"

So involved had they all been in their discussion that they had neglected to maintain their shielding. And it was also entirely possible that the shields might have been ineffectual against the perceptions of a highly skilled padawan any way.

"Padawan," replied Qui-Gon. "You are out of uniform."

Obi-Wan nodded. "Yes, Master. I apologize. My customary attire seems to make some of the patrons here nervous. So I change when I arrive."

Once more, the Master eyed the dubious inscription on the front of the t-shirt, which involved directions to some virtually impossible physical contortions. "Sorry, Master," said Obi-Wan, noting the source of Qui-Gon's unease.

"Master Qui-Gon," said Jarielle abruptly, a slight trace of challenge in her tone, "would the two of you care to join us, for Festival dinner?"

"Oh, I don't . . ."

"Delighted, we would be," said Yoda, overriding his former padawan's response.

Qui-Gon regarded the tiny Master with obvious reluctance. Yoda motioned for the towering Jedi to kneel. When he had done so, the little troll leaned forward and spoke directly into the ear of his former apprentice.

"Festival evening you will spend with your padawan, or convene the Council in emergency session, I will, and have him taken from your care. Care for you, I do, but his well-being, is my first responsibility. This will not resolve the problem, but it will be a start. Agree now, or return to your quarters and prepare for his departure."

Qui-Gon literally felt something seize up within him, as if his heart had forgotten how to beat. Lose Obi-Wan? Forever? Could he allow that?

"I . . . agree," he said finally.

But Master Yoda was forced to conceal his dismay. There had been a hesitation there; for a moment, Qui-Gon had considered the possibility.

A padawan was supposed to be central to a Master's existence; to imagine giving an apprentice up, unthinkable.

But Qui-Gon, for a split second, had thought of it.

Yoda raised his eyes and met those of Obi-Wan Kenobi. There were no tears in those luminous sea-change eyes, but only because the boy refused to allow them.

The padawan had not heard the words Yoda had spoken, but he knew, nevertheless. And he knew Qui-Gon's response, and the hesitation that preceded it.

In attempting to make the situation better, the elderly Master thought, he had possibly made it worse.

Kenobi knew, and tucked the hurt away inside him, in that place where he put all the hurt he could not allow to distract him.

The ancient Master wondered what would happen on the day when the padawan could no longer absorb it, when it would simply erupt and engulf the one who stood in its way. Obi-Wan Kenobi - a casualty, not of war, but of indifference.

As they moved toward the serving line, the crowds swelled around them, as many of the diners seemed drawn to reach out and touch the young padawan. Hands clasped his shoulder, or patted his check, or touched his arm, and he responded with his customary gentle good humor.

Jarielle Fer'mia walked beside Qui-Gon, accepting his arm to guide her in lieu of her cane. The two of them listened as Obi-Wan traded quips and laughter with members of the crowd, and she reached up to speak directly into the Master's ear. "You see, Master Jinn. It's not that your padawan lacks for love. He is greatly loved. It just doesn't come from the right person. And all of this," her hand swept the room around them, "doesn't compensate for the feelings you can't give him."

"He told you that?" he asked sharply.

She shook her head. "He's never said a word. He didn't have to. It's there, every time he says your name."

"Has he told you . . ."

"No," she interrupted, "and I don't want to know. Whatever it is that could keep anyone from loving someone like him, I don't want to hear about. All he's ever said was that he failed you horribly, when you needed him most."

Qui-Gon was swept abruptly back to that horrible time, five years ago, when his padawan had asked, in all innocence, what he could do to help his Master.

There was no help for him. That had been his response. It was still true, today. But he was beginning to hate the fact that his padawan was being forced to pay the price for it.

But he didn't know how to stop it.

He raised his eyes and saw Obi-Wan looking at him, and knew, beyond doubting, that the boy was reading his thoughts.

Still no tears in those luminous eyes.

But that didn't mean that there was no pain. For the first time, in a very long time, Qui-Gon looked - really looked - at his padawan, and was stunned by the desolation he detected within him.

Abruptly, the tall Master dropped Jarielle's arm and moved to stand before his apprentice, never breaking eye contact.

"Master?" Obi-Wan was confused.

"Padawan." Qui-Gon was fairly confused himself.

"What's . . ."

The Master gently reached out and tucked the boy's braid behind his ear. He couldn't remember the last time he had touched the braid; he had forgotten the silken softness of it. And it occurred to him that he had no idea who had been cutting his Padawan's hair. Another job he seemed to have abdicated, without noticing its passing.

"Happy Festival, Padawan."

It was simple enough, an easy phrase. No sweat, as Obi-Wan was prone to say.

But the effect - the effect was more than he could have dreamed of.

For there it was - that luminous smile that lit up those sea-change eyes until they glowed like new stars; that smile he had not seen for so very long.

Somehow, maybe due to a swell in the crowd, the apprentice was suddenly enclosed in the arms of his Master.

Obi-Wan had no idea how long this moment might last or what tomorrow would bring, but he would take whatever was offered without question.

One single tear trembled at the corner of his eye as he buried his face against his Master's robe. For this one moment, he had come home.

It might never come again, but, for now, it was enough.

 

*************** ***************** *****************

TBC


	4. Reconnection

Chapter 4: Reconnection

 

It was getting late when the Jedi trio returned to the Temple, but not so late that Obi-Wan was able to convince himself to ignore his prior commitment. He thought it quite likely that, had his return been delayed until the dawn of a new day, little Jorgal would still have been waiting, eyelids propped open, if necessary, never doubting that Obi-Wan would keep his promise.

"I apologize, Master," he offered, as they entered the Temple proper, "but I have an errand to run. It won't take long."

"It's late, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon observed. "You need your rest."

"I made a promise," replied the apprentice, undeterred.

Qui-Gon sighed. He had better cause than anyone to know; his padawan did not break promises.

"Very well, but be quick. There are many things we need to discuss."

Obi-Wan peered for a moment into his Master's eyes and found himself almost afraid to hope that his interpretation of what he saw there was genuine. Could it really be that the ice that had, for so long, encapsulated his Master's heart was beginning to thaw; that maybe - just maybe - time and distance had sufficiently healed the terrible wound to allow Qui-Gon to forgive his apprentice's stupid blunders?

Obi-Wan bowed slightly to Master Yoda, before taking off down the corridor at a quick walk, that rapidly progressed to a jog, and, finally, to an outright sprint.

Qui-Gon's eyes followed the boy avidly. "When I was that age," he remarked, "it usually took a girl - a rather spectacular girl - to make me move so quickly."

"Ummmm," replied Yoda. "Recall, I do, that several times - because of a girl - so quickly you moved that you lost your footing and wound up flat on your backside. Once in the middle of a meditation pool."

The tall Master maintained his serenity but flashed a quick smile. "The fumblings of youth. My padawan seems better co-ordinated."

"Older, he is, than you were at that time. But pursued just as avidly. A fan club, I understand he has."

Qui-Gon's smile, briefly, became a grin, before faltering. "He never mentioned it," he said softly.

"Not much opportunity have you given him," observed Master Yoda.

The tall Jedi sighed. "I know, Master. You've made your point, repeatedly."

Yoda regarded him balefully. "Not quite yet," he answered. "Come with me, you will."

"What now?"

"Not yet complete is the demonstration," replied Yoda. "Assuming you are, that your apprentice is rushing off to meet a girl. Still, you understand him too little."

"Master . . ."

"Come along."

And, with no more argument, Qui-Gon joined the tiny Master in following the path of his now-vanished padawan. Whether he liked it or not, it seemed, he was going to get the full crash course in the ongoing saga of the life of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

He suppressed a frown as he glanced down at his old Master. The dead places within him were still there; he didn't think anything would ever succeed in quickening that awful necrotic emptiness. But when he had - finally, very belatedly - gazed into the eyes of his padawan and recognized the awful pain the boy carried around, something stirred within him that had lain dormant for far too long. Wounded, he still was, and, probably, forever would be. But alive still, and capable of wanting to soothe that awful anguish. He did not know if he would ever be able to provide the kind of loving approval that Obi-Wan so desperately seemed to need, but Master Yoda was right. If he made no effort to do so, Obi-Wan might very well be lost to the Jedi, as well as to his Master.

Qui-Gon Jinn had had quite enough of loss in his lifetime. He had no idea if his reawakening feelings for his padawan would be enough to satisfy the boy; he only knew he couldn't bear the thought of losing again.

Everything else was gone.

Obi-Wan was all he had left.

Something unfamiliar - but rather wonderful - stirred in his chest. Could it possibly be that the one thing left to him would prove to be the most precious of all?

Qui-Gon distinctly heard a whisper of sound - like a sigh, only not exactly - in the air around him. He looked up, but there was nothing there.

Master Yoda was staring at him strangely, green eyes bright with some unidentifiable emotion.

"What?" asked Qui-Gon, sensing that there was something beyond the ordinary happening here, something beyond his grasp.

"Closed off, you have become, my Padawan," observed Yoda. "And not only from your apprentice. Suffered much you have. More than was necessary. And allowed him to be punished for sins he never committed. Time, it is for you to open your eyes, and see the gifts the Force has provided for you."

Qui-Gon's throat was suddenly thick with tears. He could only nod.

He found, in the end, that he was not really surprised when their journey ended at the Creche.

Master Lao was just chasing down a few stray repulso-balls when the two Masters made their entrance. She gazed at Qui-Gon sternly, prepared, if necessary, to run interference between him and his padawan if the towering Master had come here for some kind of twisted retribution. The look in her eyes revealed that she was surprised to find only serenity and gentle concern in his expression.

"If you've come looking for Obi-Wan, he'll be out soon."

"Where is he?" Qui-Gon's tone was quiet and respectful.

She smiled. "Entertaining a roomful of two-year-olds."

Qui-Gon cocked an ear and found, if he listened closely, he could hear what sounded like a holovid, complete with rather primitive sound effects.

"They're very . . . subdued, for two-year-olds," he remarked.

She reached out and took his hand, and led him toward the source of the sounds. "You have to be very quiet," she murmured, "because if you break their concentration, it's instant bedlam. But trust me when I say that this is worth seeing."

Yoda, apparently already in the know, trailed along behind them, looking inordinately pleased with himself.

From the time they graduated from baby cribs, until their sixth birthdays, Jedi children were housed in ward-type accommodations, with six to ten beds per ward, and two creche supervisors assigned for each room. In Jorgal's case, a total of eight bright-eyed, Force-blessed younglings shared a huge, sunny, brightly decorated sleep room, and all eight now sat in their respective beds - completely enthralled, as their favorite Jedi improvised a stellar performance for them. Obi-Wan was - apparently - both hero and villain of a mini-play about a noble knight and a dastardly draigon, switching back and forth between the two roles effortlessly. The children were - quite simply - spellbound.  
.  
Little Jorgal's eyes followed the apprentice's every gesture, growing huge and shiny as Obi-Wan stalked toward him, fingers stretched into draigon claws, breath heavy and rasping.

"And the mighty draigon drew closer," . . . fierce growl . . . ."and closer" . . . . fierce growl . . . "and closer. Until suddenly" . . . the snap/hiss of a lightsaber igniting . . . "the brave knight drew his faithful sword, sprang to the beast's back" . . . the unmistakable sound of a lightsaber slicing through the air . . . "and struck the beast down." The lightsaber was abruptly extinguished. "And the brave knight rescued the princess, and they all lived happily ever after."

Seven pairs of tiny hands clapped delightedly; the eighth pair - belonging to a four-year-old girl with hair like spun sugar - were busily tugging at Obi-Wan's belt to get his attention. When she had it and he knelt before her, she said, "You forgot the part where the knight kisses the princess."

He laughed softly. "Well, we can't have that, can we?" So he scooped her up in his arms and dropped a kiss on the top of her head.

"Okay," he announced, "anybody not in their bed in ten seconds doesn't get tucked."

Jorgal, of course, was the last to be 'tucked', and wrapped his little body around Obi-Wan's torso like a primate clinging to a tree.

"Sleepytime, Chum," said the padawan, trying to detach himself.

"I not sleepy."

Obi-Wan yawned, deliberately. "But I am. If I don't get to bed, I'll probably fall asleep during saber practice tomorrow, and cut off something important. OK?"

" 'Kay. You won't forget? Tomorrow?"

"Do I ever forget?"

"No."

"Night, Jorgi."

"Love you, Obi-Mine."

The apprentice laid the boy down and pulled the blankets up to tuck around his shoulders. "Love you, too, Little One. Now go to sleep."

Jorgal burrowed into his pillow sleepily, but still managed to murmur, "Stay with me?"

Obi-Wan laid a gentle hand on the boy's back. "I'll be right here," he replied.

He sat for a moment, gazing down at the child, then glanced around at all the other beds to find eight little bodies, all drifting happily into slumber.

Qui-Gon, concealed by the shadows in the corridor, felt his eyes tear suddenly, as Master Lao looked up at him. 

"Now that," she whispered softly, "is a gift of the Force."

"Yes," he answered softly. "I never knew he was so good with children."

"He is," she answered, "but that's not what I meant."

The tall Master turned to her, his question plain in his eyes.

"I didn't mean that he has a gift," she answered, "although it's obvious that he does. What I meant was that he _is_ the gift." She leaned closer, and her dark eyes seemed to reach out and grab him. "And it's time you recognized it."

Abruptly, Qui-Gon turned and moved back into the common area of the creche. Master Yoda, serene as always (at least, in demeanor) followed more slowly.

When the tall Master turned to confront the tiny one, a shade of impatience tinted his voice. "Is everyone in the Temple a part of this conspiracy?"

"Conspiracy?" said Yoda. "No conspiracy is there. A guilty conscience, perhaps you have, to conclude that all are conspiring. Much loved, is the boy, and deserving of it. Blind we are not. Seen his pain, we all have. A pity it is that his own Master saw it not."

Qui-Gon walked to the window and looked out into the semi-darkness. "So I'm to be shown the error of my ways, whether I wish it or not. Is that it?"

"Angry, you are," said Yoda. "Know why, do you?"

"Because - because . . . ."

Master Lao spoke up. "Because he's your padawan, and it's no one else's business?"

"Not exactly, but . . ."

Yoda sighed. "Qui-Gon," he said softly, and, for the first time, the younger Master heard a wealth of weariness in the ancient voice, "let this continue, I cannot. Too important is the boy, to the future of the Jedi. By itself, that is enough to force me to act. But aside from that, too important is he - to you. Aware I am of your sense of loss and emptiness. Afraid you are, to allow anyone to fill it."

The ancient Master gestured for his former student to kneel before him. When Qui-Gon had complied, huge, brilliant citrus green eyes regarded him solemnly. "Time it is to let the boy in. Your life he will fill, if you allow it."

Suddenly, Qui-Gon was seized with an urge to leap to his feet and run from this place - run from the destiny that he saw rushing toward him.

"Xanatos, he is not," said the old Master. "Deserves your love, he does." He paused, and reached out to lay a gentle palm on Qui-Gon's shoulder. "Fear, it is that prevents you from opening your heart. Fear, that opens you to the Dark Side and endangers him. You must lay your fears aside."

"Master, he . . . . ."

Master Lao suddenly knelt beside him, and laid her arm across his back. "Qui-Gon," she said gently, "this boy has stood at your side for five long years, while you did everything but take a lightsaber to him to shove him away. I have raised hundreds of Jedi children - literally. And I have never seen any child love his Master as much as Obi-Wan loves you. You have pushed him, ignored him, blamed him, criticized him, distrusted him, abandoned him; what else is there you could do to him? And none of it - none of it made one bit of difference. For he loves you still, more than his life. Do you understand that? More than his life."

There was a stir from the doorway behind them, and all three turned to see Obi-Wan standing there, leaning heavily against the frame. His eyes were downcast, and he looked on the brink of exhaustion.

"Don't do this," he said softly. "Please leave him alone. I know you mean well, but just leave it. Please."

Never raising his head, he walked to the exit and stepped into the hallway. 

For a moment, the scene in the Creche assumed the dynamic of a tableau; it seemed that no one could break the stillness. Until, abruptly, Qui-Gon was on his feet and across the room in a Force-enhanced blur. He erupted into the corridor, and grabbed his Padawan, just as the boy turned to walk away.

"Master," said the apprentice, "you don't have to . . ."

"Shut up," said Qui-Gon firmly.

Obi-Wan's crystal eyes widened. It was the first time in his life he'd ever heard his Master use that term. "What?"

"Shut up, and just . . . let me look at you."

Somehow, the Padawan slipped to his knees, and his Master followed him to the floor, huge hands gripping the boy's shoulders.

For a moment - or an eternity (neither of them was ever quite sure which) - Qui-Gon simply stared into those amazing luminous eyes; then he moved his hands, ever so gently, to cup his Padawan's face.

"You've grown up," he said, a sense of wonder in his voice. "You've grown up, and I missed it."

Obi-Wan lowered his eyelids abruptly. "Not so grown up," he said, suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

But Qui-Gon had spent too many years, missing too much. "Look at me," he said firmly.

"Master . . ."

"Obi-Wan?"

"Yes, Master?"

"Look at me - now!"

And the eyelids fluttered and lifted, and Qui-Gon's heart thudded in his chest, for there were those sea-change eyes, awash with unshed tears.

"What have I done?" the Master said softly. "Oh, Child, what have I done to you?"

"No, Master. Please don't . . ."

"Obi-Wan?"

Ever the obedient Padawan, the boy went silent, simply waiting for whatever his Master might ask of him. And, for five long years, what had been asked was that he sacrifice himself on the altar of a guilty conscience that should have never been his to begin with.

"I don't expect you to understand this, my Padawan, or even to believe it, perhaps. For now. Every day that I have spent locked away in my misery; every hour that I have shut you out, or, worse, punished you for crimes you never committed; every single moment that I have wasted, I have, nevertheless, loved you. I won't pretend that I was aware of it, most of the time. I wasn't; I wasn't aware of feeling anything, except my own self-pity. But it was always there, under the surface. And it would come to me at the strangest moments, reaching out to grab my attention. I just wasn't ready to listen."

Luminous eyes closed slowly, as tears brimmed and traced a path down that lovely face. "Master, you don't have to . . ."

"Now," said Qui-Gon, firmly, "I'm ready."

Obi-Wan heard the words, but found that he simply couldn't accept them. He had cultivated, within himself, a comfort zone which protected him from the worst of his pain, and he didn't know if he was capable of dismantling that security buffer. He shivered suddenly, and was stricken with an incredible urge to run, to get away to a place where no staring eyes could witness his weakness. A sob tore from his throat - raw, visceral, agonized.

Strong, steady arms suddenly engulfed him, and he knew he would not be allowed to run. Not this time.

He had dreamed of this day. For five, dark, dreadful years, he had imagined this moment. But for all that visualization, he had never actually believed it would come. For he had looked into the eyes of his Master on that infamous day and seen the destruction of a soul, the endless collateral damage inflicted by a life cut short, struck down in its prime. Tahl had been an embodiment of the magic of high summer - radiant in bloom, vibrant, elegant in the fullness of her maturity. She had been the perfection of a full blown Alderaanian rose, fated never to see the first chill of autumn. And Qui-Gon had watched her die, and somewhere, deep inside him, far from the light of reason, blamed his padawan for her dying.

But no more - as anyone who knew him well knew - than he blamed himself.

"Master," he whispered, barely audible, "you don't have to do this. It's all right. I'm all right."

Qui-Gon, none too gently, pushed him back and grasped his chin firmly, forcing him to raise his eyes. "But I'm not," said the Master, his voice not quite steady. "I need you, Padawan. I need my Obi-Wan, back where he belongs."

And once more, his arms encircled his apprentice, inviting the boy to lean into the embrace. For a moment, Obi-Wan remained stiff and unresponsive, but, in the end, it was all too much for him. He had held himself apart for so long - in silence - that he had no reserves of strength left. Slowly, with a deep sigh, he settled against his Master's chest and allowed himself to hope that he wasn't dreaming.

"I'm so sorry, Master," he said softly. "I've never been able to tell you how sorry I am."

Qui-Gon raised his head and met the eyes of his own ancient Master and read the message there as clearly as if it had been printed out for him.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Padawan. Nothing."

"I failed you," came the boy's voice, muffled by the roughness of Qui-Gon's robe.

"No," replied the Master. "You were exactly what I always taught you to be, the perfect Padawan. It was I who failed you, and Tahl."

"No, Master. Don't say that, please. It . . ." The voice broke, and Obi-Wan was suddenly unable to speak, as he choked on his tears.

Master Qui-Gon Jinn, most dignified and restrained of all Jedi Masters, sank to a sitting position there in that public corridor and drew his almost full grown apprentice into his lap and rocked him like a lost child, stroking the boy's back with a massive, trembling hand. "Shhh, now, Padawan. No more tears. We've both cried far too many."

Obi-Wan fought to regain his composure. Finally, he raised his head and peered into his Master's eyes. "I promise you," he said softly, "I'll never fail you again."

Qui-Gon cupped the boy's face with his hands and took a deep breath. "You have never failed me," he breathed. "I cannot tell you how proud I am of what you have become, in spite of the neglect of your Master. Obi-Wan, you're . . . a miracle. You make me humble, to see what you've achieved."

Obi-Wan felt the blush rise in his face. "Don't, Master," he said. "Whatever I've learned, I learned from you."

Qui-Gon smiled. "Padawan, today I saw you charm everyone around you, from reprobate old ladies to street toughs to Creche babies. I'm stunned. You never learned that from me; it's just who you are."

"It was nothing," said the Padawan, with a tiny self-deprecating smile.

"No," said Qui-Gon firmly, "it was wonderful. You were wonderful, and I remembered, all of a sudden, how much I love you."

Obi-Wan's breath suddenly caught in his throat. "You . . . " But he couldn't continue.

The Master made sure the apprentice was looking into his eyes. "I love you, my Padawan."

And, with a suddenness that was stunning, the black void within Obi-Wan spiraled down into nothingness, as if it had never existed, and the protective inner shield that had kept him isolated for so long simply collapsed, allowing his Master unrestricted access to his consciousness, for the first time in four long bitter years.

The Master closed his eyes against the onslaught of tumultuous emotions; he would sort it and seek greater understanding later. For now, he simply needed to survive it, and respond to it with soothing projections of love and acceptance.

Once more, Obi-Wan buried his face in Qui-Gon's robe, still obviously mortified by his own emotionalism, but no longer so mortified that he could not speak.

"I love you, Master."

As tears welled in Qui-Gon's eyes, he clasped his apprentice to his heart. "I will never lose you again," he said firmly. "Never."

"Master?" The Padawan's voice was still muffled.

"Yes, Padawan?"

"I can't breathe."

The Master loosened his hold and laughed softly. "Let's go home," he said, tugging gently on his padawan's braid.

Neither of them noticed the weary smile on the features of the ancient Jedi Master who stood and watched them walk away together. Nor did they notice the shadow that still lingered in huge, lustrous green eyes.

But Master Lao, less distracted and, perhaps, slightly more pragmatic, for the moment, saw it clearly. She surreptitiously wiped a stray tear from the corner of her eye (Obi-Wan was, after all, still one of her 'babies', as he would always be) before turning to confront the elderly Master.

"It's not over, is it?"

He heaved a huge sigh. "Over? No. Barely begun, is it. But, without today, ended, it would already be, I fear. He could not have continued."

She nodded. "It's very difficult to watch such devastation happen to a Jedi Master."

"Ummmm. Even harder to watch it destroy a child of Light."

Her gaze grew sharp. "You're saying that it's Obi-Wan who's in danger in this mess."

"Both," he answered, somewhat absent-mindedly.

"There is no darkness in the boy," she said firmly.

"No, but the darkness will claim both, or neither. As it is meant to be."

Master Lao sighed dramatically as Yoda wandered away, his broad face still wrinkled in thought. Just once, she observed, it would be nice if the little troll would express himself in something besides a riddle.

What she failed to realize was that the very same thought had been occurring to hordes of Jedi knights for countless generations. And it was no less true than it had ever been.

 

******************** ********************* ********************

 

The circular audience chamber of the Jedi Council was, as intended, a cold, somewhat forbidding place - not meant to encourage dawdling, but fully meant to intimidate anyone appearing therein. The effect, though fairly intense initially, was generally short-lived, as Jedi Masters and more experienced knights rapidly developed an immunity to the sense of foreboding, but it rarely failed to make younger knights and padawans uneasy and eager to depart. Thus, it served a dual purpose for the members of the Council; it encouraged brevity, and it discouraged evasion. And, in extreme cases, it even served, to some degree, as a punitive measure, for there were few things within the Temple more uncomfortable than being kept standing before the Council, for whatever reason.

Master Yoda moved across the dim expanse of the chamber quietly, lost in memory. Young Kenobi had stood before the Council several times, and the Master remembered the boy's appearances vividly. He had sometimes been remorseful, sometimes stubbornly silent, occasionally defiant, but he had always been intensely honest. Master Lao was correct; there was no darkness in the boy.

But that did not guarantee that there never would be.

Slow footsteps disrupted the silence of the night, as the tiny Master gazed out at the never-absent traffic patterns weaving around the Temple.

"Well?" said the rich, deep voice. "Is it done?"

"Ummm," replied Yoda, glancing up to meet the dark, liquid eyes of Mace Windu. "Done, it is."

"Successfully?"

The troll sighed. "Remains to be seen, that does. The link is opening, but it may be beyond the boy's ability to trust sufficiently to open it completely. Deep are his wounds; deeper than even his Master knows."

"You told them nothing about the mission?"

"Not ready, are they. Readjust to each other, they must."

"Master," said Mace quietly, "I know you feel that you must act to try to preserve their bond, but the mission . . . ."

"Critical, it is not. Twelve years, it has waited. Another few days will make no difference."

Windu was silent for a moment, deep in thought. "Do you intend to tell them of your suspicions?"

The tiny Master sighed. "Best, it is, I think, if they discover it for themselves."

"It could come as a huge shock."

"Ummm, almost certainly, it will. This secret, I do not believe, was ever shared."

Mace Windu moved to his customary chair and allowed himself to slouch comfortably. "This could destroy them, you know. The bond may not be strong enough to withstand it."

"Know this, I do, but what choice have we? A debt, we owe."

"You know, of course, that he will insist on assuming responsibility?"

"Yes."

Windu steepled his fingers before his face, and something dark and tragic moved in his eyes. "And the padawan?"

Yoda's huge eyes blinked slowly. "Will do as always."

"You mean he'll sacrifice himself - again."

The tiny Master looked down into the darkness, and felt a huge sadness well within him. "His nature, it is. Leaves us in an awkward position. We cannot lose Obi-Wan, and we cannot turn our backs on our obligation."

Mace nodded and cleared his throat. "I could take him, Master."

Yoda's eyes widened. Mace Windu had not taken a Padawan in over two decades. "A blessing is young Kenobi, a source of pride for any Master. And flattered, I am sure he would be, but I fear it is too late for anyone else to step in."

Once more he turned back to his perusal of the night skies. "Qui-Gon, his Master must be, or no one. The boy will consent to no other."

"Then we must step in and prevent disaster." The dark Jedi sounded weary, but determined.

Yoda was silent for a time. When he finally spoke, it seemed that he was looking out not across the city, but across time, and memory. "For a thousand years, have we stood against treachery and deception. A thousand years. And throughout them all, dedicated ourselves, we have to the exercise of free will. Will we now abandon that, in order to insure that future events proceed as foreseen? Is young Kenobi to be the ultimate sacrifice, imprisoned by a Jedi vision, used by the very community he would instantly give his life to defend?"

"If you asked him," said Windu softly, "you know what his response would be."

"Ummmm, so ask him, we will not. Free he must be, to make his own choices."

"And if his choice is to walk away?"

The tiny Master drew himself up to his full height (which, of course, wasn't particularly impressive, but it made him feel more imposing anyway).

"Then we let him go. Hold him against his will, we will not, nor resort to emotional blackmail. And hope that another way can be found."

Windu rose and moved to stand beside his oldest friend. "I hope it doesn't come to that, because, if it does, it will, one day, cost Qui-Gon more than he's able to pay." He looked down at his colleague, and saw a shadow of dread in those citrus eyes. "But something tells me that you already know what's going to happen. Don't you?"

Another sigh from the troll. "Know the beginning, I do. The ending remains dark, without resolution."

"I'll miss him," said Windu, very softly. "He . . . grows on you."

Yoda chuckled. "Think that, you did not when he and his friends painted flames on your speeder or put mothballs in your kwinlaga stew or arranged for an exotic dancer to celebrate your elevation to the Council."

Windu laughed softly. "If nothing else, you have to give him credit for creative thinking."

"Yes. Much laughter has he given us over the years, though not so much of late."

The dark Master heaved a deep sigh. "Maybe we're worrying for nothing. Maybe."

"Yes. Maybe."

The tiny Master turned to walk away. He said nothing more, but Windu heard it anyway. Whether they accepted it or not, destiny was reaching toward them with greedy fingers, fingers that sought only to snare and remove one figure from their midst.

Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Only time would determine how successful the ploy would be.

*************** ******************** ***************

 

The snow was only a memory now, but the night was still bitter cold, and a piercing wind shrieked around the upper reaches of the Jedi Temple. In the wee small hours of the morning, a lone individual sat hunched in a lounge chair on a tiny terrace, bundled beneath a thick blanket and a Jedi cape. Little was visible of the figure as the coverings had been wrapped and rewrapped, mummy style, to ward off the cold. Only the eyes were discernible - a brilliant blue-green, dark-lashed, brooding, occasionally brighter than the reflections of the night's illuminations could explain.

Obi-Wan reminded himself - several times - that the hour was late and he should retire to his bed. His nice, cozy warm bed that had sheltered him and cradled him and guarded him, for so long. He had spent countless hours in that bed, which had become his fortress, his sanctuary, listening. Listening for the slow approach of footsteps, usually in the darkest hours of the night, followed by the gentle sound of his bedroom door opening and the rustle of clothing as the midnight visitor would come to stand beside his bed. Sometimes, the visit would last only seconds; sometimes, it seemed to last forever. His Master's midnight visits; the ones he had never mentioned to anyone. The ones when Qui-Gon would simply stand, staring down at his padawan, his eyes lost and bruised.

Obi-Wan had lived in terror of those visits, for he had never understood them. He always expected to be jerked from the warmth of his bed and tossed out into the street, somehow. Even though no such thing ever happened. And then, finally, after the visits had become almost commonplace, he came to believe that they served to allow his Master to exercise his disgust for his apprentice, without actually having to acknowledge it openly. For, if Obi-Wan was expelled from the Order, it would reflect poorly on his Master, no matter how unfair that might be.

So he never fully comprehended the purpose for those visits; he only knew how they made him feel: terrified. So he had never once acknowledged that he was awake as his Master stood looking down at him. 

Terrified. He had spent many long hours after his Master's silent departure, just waiting. He never knew what he was waiting for, only that it terrified him. Just as he was terrified now.

He had looked on the face of his Master tonight, and seen the Master to whom he had given his heart; the Master he had once known; the Master who had died with Tahl. More than anything, he wanted to believe in the rebirth of that person, but he couldn't.

Better than anyone, he knew what his failures had done to Qui-Gon. No one else had any idea what his Master had endured and was still enduring.

And despite the noble-sounding tenets of the Jedi Code, Obi-Wan knew one thing beyond all doubt: some things were beyond forgiving. Like the pain he had caused his Master. Qui-Gon might try to overlook it; try to forget it. But it would always be there between them, lurking in the shadows - waiting.

Obi-Wan loved his Master; he would instantly have given his life to remedy the wrongs he had done. But he knew, deep within himself, that his Master would not, could not ever truly forgive him. How could he, when Obi-Wan could not possibly forgive himself?

So here he sat now, and pondered. How must he deal with Qui-Gon's apparent change of heart? He thought he had figured out why it had happened; his Master had been pressured - by everybody from Master Yoda down to the lowest of initiates - to forgive and forget. He had no doubt that the scene he had stumbled on in the creche had been only the very tip of a huge ice berg, created by the machinations of Temple activists.

He knew they meant well; he knew they only wanted to help him. But he also knew that anything which would help him would only hurt his Master.

And that he would not allow.

It was a promise he had made to himself on that fateful day, that day when he had looked into his Master's eyes and seen the death of that mighty spirit.

He would never hurt his Master again. Nor would he allow anyone else to do so, not so long as he had breath in his body, sufficient to prevent it.

Slowly he lowered his face to his drawn-up knees, shutting out the sights and sounds of the night. Shutting out everything but the sound of his own breathing.

Thus, he was startled when a large, rough-hewn hand was laid atop his head.

"Padawan."

Instantly, he was wide awake and alert. "Yes, Master."

"What are you doing out here? It's freezing."

"Just meditating, Master." But he kept his eyes cast downward.

Qui-Gon reached out through their newly reopened link and felt something insubstantial, elusive.

Firmly, Qui-Gon pulled his Padawan to his feet, and braced the boy's back against his own broad chest, while laying his chin atop Obi-Wan's head. He allowed himself a small, wistful smile as he realized that, soon, he would no longer be able to do so, so easily. Obi-Wan was outgrowing such childhood rituals. With the ease of familiarity, he extended the folds of his own cape to enfold the boy.

"Tell me what's bothering you, my apprentice."

"Master, I . . . ."

Obi-Wan allowed himself to settle back against that strong chest, and feel the warmth of his Master's arms surrounding him. He was so very tired of being cold; it seemed he had been cold for as long as he could remember.

"You don't trust me." The rumble of Qui-Gon's voice was a purr against his Padawan's ear.

"No, it's not that."

Qui-Gon smiled. "You still haven't learned to lie very well, Little One."

Obi-Wan turned to look up into midnight blue eyes. "Why are you doing this, Master?"

"Is it so impossible to believe that I might need you, Obi-Wan?"

The padawan lowered his face until it rested against Qui-Gon's chest. "I know you need me, but it's not necessary for you to pretend affection you don't feel. I'm not going away."

"Pretend? You think I'm pretending?"

"Why should you forgive me?" came the whisper, lost, desolate.

"Why don't you tell me why I should not?" The Master's tone was serene, unruffled, but there was a world of anticipation beneath the question.

"Because I can't."

It was so soft that Qui-Gon wasn't entirely sure he had heard it correctly. But, then, he tested the bond again, and was finally able to grasp the wraith which had eluded him earlier. The spectre that haunted his Padawan's noble spirit was guilt - darker, deeper, more intense than anything the Master might, in his misguided anger, have demanded from the boy.

"Oh, my Obi-Wan," said Qui-Gon softly, one hand stroking the boy's bowed head, "is that what has driven you all these years? Is this what my rage and self-delusion has brought you to?"

"If it weren't for me . . ."

"I'd be dead, I think."

Obi-Wan gasped and jerked away from his Master, eyes wide and sparked with panic. "What . . . what do you mean?"

The midnight blue eyes were as tranquil as they had ever been. "Didn't you know? You were all that kept me alive, Padawan. You were the only reason I had to rise each morning to face a new day." He smiled gently. "Some days, I bitterly resented you for it."

"I thought you hated me."

A massive tremor shook the Jedi Master, as he caught the barest glimpse of the endless night in which his apprentice had lingered for so long.

"Look at me, Padawan." He waited calmly until those radiant, tear-washed orbs rose to regard him and forced himself not to cringe as he easily discerned the dread hovering within them - the dread that wanted to plead not to be hurt again, but would, nevertheless, stand and endure whatever he might choose to dispense.

His voice was velvet soft, and he poured every ounce of sincerity within him into it. "I could never hate you, even when I was very angry with you. Even when I allowed myself to hold you responsible, it was only because I couldn't deal with the truth. You are my padawan learner, but you're also ever so much more than that." He sighed softly. "You're my reason for living. And I have no idea how to make you understand that, or how to ask you to forgive me."

"Please don't do that," breathed Obi-Wan. "I have nothing for which to forgive you, and you have everything for . . ."

"Stop, Padawan," said the Master, pressing a gentle finger against the boy's lips. "I will not allow you to go on with this. It causes me great pain to see this in you."

Tears glistened afresh in the apprentice's luminous eyes. "I never want to hurt you again, Master."

And the boy was engulfed once more in his Master's massive embrace. "What I'm trying to tell you is that you never hurt me in the first place. You saved me."

"But . . ."

"I needed someone to blame, Padawan. You were available. It's as simple and as horrible as that. Do you understand me?"

Tentatively, the boy nodded, obviously not quite trusting himself to speak.

"Now can we go inside? I'm entirely too old to be bumbling around out here in the cold."

"You'll never be too old," said Obi-Wan, taking a deep breath and inhaling the scent of his Master, a scent he had missed for longer than he cared to remember.

"Inside, Child. Now. Or we'll both have chilblains tomorrow."

"We'll have what?"

"Chilblains."

"What's that?"

"I have no idea, but it sounds dreadful, doesn't it?"

And, as they stepped through the doorway, Obi-Wan laughed - just a tiny little chuckle - but Master Jinn thought it the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. He found that he suddenly wanted much more of it.

"Tell me, Padawan," he said, with a smile. "Have you a girlfriend?"

The rosy glow that rose immediately in Obi-Wan's face was lovely to behold, as he muttered something completely incomprehensible.

"What?"

"I said, 'Several, Master'."

"And a fan club, I understand?"

The glow increased to a painful intensity. "I do not have a fan club."

"Surely you are not accusing Master Yoda of lying. He was very specific."

"He is . . . mistaken, Master."

Qui-Gon settled himself on the deep-cushioned sofa, and gestured for Obi-Wan to join him there. Once more, he seemed to lose himself in a study of his padawan's face, his eyes alight with warmth and affection.

"Master?" Obi-Wan's tone was tentative. 

"Yes?"

"When you . . . before . . you would . ."

Qui-Gon reached out and laid his hand on his Padawan's shoulder. "Go on. What is it you need to ask me?"

"You used to come into my room, late at night, and just stand there. Looking down at me."

The Master sighed. "Yes. I always wondered if you were awake, but your shielding, as always, was immaculate. I could never tell."

"Why did you do that?"

"Because I had to know."

"Know what?"

Qui-Gon leaned forward and waited for his Padawan to turn to meet his eyes. "I had to know that you were still there, that you weren't lost to me - like everything else. As hard as I tried to push you away, I had to make sure that you hadn't gone too far. Even though I could sense you, through the bond, it wasn't enough. I had to see you. And you have no idea how difficult it was to stand there and not reach out to touch you. Just to be sure."

"But you never said anything," said Obi-Wan, confusion plain in his face. 

"I know. I wish now that I had told you all the things that I held inside. All I can say is that I couldn't. I never stopped loving you, Obi-Wan, but it took a long time for me to be able to forgive you. Not because you'd done anything to be forgiven for; you hadn't. But because bitterness must always seek someone to blame. Anger is easier to deal with than grief."

Obi-Wan was silent for a moment; then he slowly, cautiously stretched out his hand and waited for his Master's response.

Qui-Gon enfolded those long, slender fingers with his own large hand and waited.

"Is this . . . real?" The padawan sounded as if he were afraid to speak too loudly, for fear of frightening away whatever it was that had brought on this transformation.

Qui-Gon smiled. "Are we discussing transcendentalism, or the stuff of dreams?"

"Both," replied Obi quickly. "I'm not dreaming. Am I?"

"We are real, Padawan. This is reality, and I feel like there is so much that I have to relearn about you. So much changed while I was off on my quest for self-immolation."

Obi-Wan shook his head. "I haven't really changed, Master."

Qui-Gon regarded his apprentice with a spark of mischief growing in his eyes. "Really?"

"Really."

"S-o-o-o. Does that mean you're still a virgin, Little One?"

"Master!" The apprentice's face flamed brilliantly, but it did not conceal the spark of laughter in his eyes.

"Well?"

Obi-Wan smiled. "A gentleman never kisses and tells."

Qui-Gon cleared his throat roughly. "And did someone tell you the things you needed to know, my Padawan?"

Obi-Wan paused, and looked as if he wasn't sure how to answer that question. Finally, he just spoke from the heart. "Yes, Master. A long, long time ago."

Qui-Gon nodded, determined not to allow Obi-Wan to see that it was painful to think of someone else initiating that infamous conversation - the one that all parents dreaded. "And who was it that filled in so admirably in my absence?"

"Not in your absence, Master. You were here."

"I know, but . . ."

"No. You don't understand. It didn't happen after that day."

Qui-Gon's eyes registered confusion. "Then when . ."

"Before that, Master. A couple of years before. I was, after all, fifteen then."

"So who . . ."

"Master Tahl." The name was spoken in a hush, as if the boy feared that its very sound would dispel the magic of these moments.

"Tahl," Qui-Gon echoed, stunned for a moment.

"Yes, Master."

"Tahl told you about sex?"

"Yes, Master. She was afraid you might leave it too late."

The Master looked down at his hands, and felt tears well in his eyes. It seemed to be happening a lot lately. "She loved you very much, Padawan. I had hoped that she would become . . ." He stopped, unable to form the words.

Obi-Wan merely leaned forward and laid his head on his Master's shoulder. 

Abruptly, Qui-Gon rose and pulled his Padawan up with him. "Time for you to get some sleep," he said, somewhat gruffly. "You've had an interesting day."

Obi-Wan reached up and straightened a lock of Qui-Gon's hair. "Interesting? That's hardly the word."

"Your friend, Jarielle, seems very fond of you, Padawan. Not to mention as protective as a mother catling."

Obi-Wan merely shrugged. "She's from Drimula, Master. They grow them pretty tough out there, I guess. The whole planet has been at war for almost two decades. So they don't hold back with their feelings much."

"So I noticed." Qui-Gon's smile was wry. "All in all, a most admirable woman, and it pleases me that someone of such obvious character should be so devoted to you. You really have become a fine young man, Padawan. I am tremendously proud of you."

It was Obi-Wan who noticed the winking light of the message signal on the comm station. Had it been the Master, he would probably have ignored it for the remainder of the night, but the padawan, in the manner of youth everywhere, was curious, and activated the recording.

Master Yoda's voice was a perfect match for his personality: rough, brisk, and grumpy. "A mission, the Council has for the two of you. Two days, you will have to prepare, prior to departure. To Mejanis, you will go. A situation has arisen which must be investigated. For this mission, uniquely qualified are you. Mission briefing materials are being transferred to your terminals. May the Force be with you."

Qui-Gon allowed himself a deep sigh. For five miserable years, he had committed every possible blunder in the treatment of his padawan, and, now, when he had finally seen the error of his ways and determined to make amends, the Council was going to step in and make certain that he had little or no time to do so.

Obi-Wan grinned, hearing his Master's thoughts almost as clearly as if they had been spoken. It had been much too long since their communication link had been so wide open. "It's all right, Master," he said softly. "We have two days, and then it's probably another two or three to Mejanis. We'll have time."

Qui-Gon reached out and tucked the errant Padawan braid behind the boy's ear. "I feel like there'll never be enough time."

Obi-Wan nodded. "Master Ramal has a very appropriate saying."

"Ramal?" Qui-Gon said sharply. "Are you and he friendly, Padawan?"

"He is Ciara's Master."

Qui-Gon nodded. "Nevertheless, I can think of more . . ." He paused as he saw the grin on Obi-Wan's face. "I'm sorry, Padawan. I keep forgetting that you're hardly a child any more. It is inappropriate for me to dictate who you associate with."

"Relax, Master. I do like Master Ramal, but we also disagree - quite strongly - about a lot of things."

Qui-Gon nodded. "Excellent," he said, astonished by how relieved he was.

"But in this case . . ."

"All right," said the Master, grinning. "What does he say?"

Mischief flared in sea-change eyes. "Life's a bitch; and then you die." 

Qui-Gon chuckled, much to the delight of his Padawan.

"Go to bed, Little Prince."

Obi-Wan, suddenly, couldn't breathe. "You haven't called me that, since I was a kid."

Qui-Gon reached out and took his apprentice's face in his huge, capable hands. "Then I suppose I should tell you," he said softly, "that it doesn't matter how big you get. Or what a mighty Jedi you become. Or how many beautiful women throw themselves at your feet. You'll always be a little prince to me."

The padawan closed his eyes, and felt the liveliness and strength of the bond that linked him to his Master, the bond that had been silent and dark for so many years.

He went to his bedroom and sprawled on his bed, the warmth of the bond wrapped around him like a blanket. 

For the first time in five years, Obi-Wan slept soundly through the remainder of the night, and never once shivered from the cold.

Across the hallway, a Jedi Master rested easily, though sleep was elusive. He repeatedly reached out through the Force to touch the consciousness of his padawan. He felt a bit like a man who had just wakened from a coma, as if he were trying to find his way back to life.

There were still unresolved issues within him, but none involved his apprentice. For he finally recognized the truth of what so many people had tried to tell him. He was not sure that he would ever make it all the way back to the place he had occupied before Tahl's death, but, if he did, it would only be because his padawan fought to help him get there. Obi-Wan was the motivation he needed to make the attempt, and the prize at the end of the journey.

He had no idea what he had done in his life to deserve the devotion that the boy offered so freely; very little, he thought. But he would make sure that he earned it from this day forward.

He would never abandon his padawan again. There was nothing in the universe that could persuade him to do so.

 

************* ********************* ****************

 

A young girl sat at the edge of a broad lake as twin suns slipped below the horizon, and a handful of stars sprang into existence in the purple sweep above her. If she squinted in just the right way - and utilized just a bit of imagination - she thought she could see Coruscant there, just above the northern horizon. Of course, the brilliance of the Core obscured most individual stellar luminescence, but she still managed to convince herself that she could pick it out.

Coruscant - planet of hope, planet of magic, planet of the Jedi.

The Jedi. Her people, maybe.

Perhaps she would know soon.

They were coming, it was said. All the children whispered of it, even though the Staff refused to confirm or deny anything.

Jedi knights, coming here. 

It had been a very long time since the last visit of such a person.

Many years.

The girl had grown much since then. She would be unrecognizable, if anyone came who had come before.

But she didn't think that would be the case.

No one had ever mentioned it, but she thought that the Jedi knight who had last visited here was dead. She didn't know why she believed that, but she did.

"Yoni," came the shout from the building behind her, "time for supper. Please come in now. It's getting cold."

With a sigh, the girl reluctantly stood, and wrapped a thin sweater around her body. Once more she looked up and imagined that far away world. And wondered.

As she turned to go into the house, there was a brief flash of light from a boat beating its way toward shore.

The light seemed to pool and concentrate itself in her eyes: beautiful, unusual eyes; enchanting eyes, striped green and gold.

**************** **************** **************** 

TBC


	5. Threats Rising

Chapter 5: Threats Rising

 

There was a subliminal buzz of what might have been excitement - in any other setting in the galaxy - but, of course, excitement, in the Jedi Temple, was considered horribly gauche; even the youngest initiates understood that.

So it was that the growing crowd within the training room as day nestled down into evening assured itself collectively that it was only by the merest chance of circumstance that it was present at the exact moment when Master Qui-Gon Jinn - long absent from these premises - returned to the scene of so many memorable battles. Nor was it any less pleasurable - for the witnesses - that his companion was young Obi-Wan Kenobi, who, it was rumored, was well on his way to being the equal of his famous - or infamous - Master. The apprentice, it was said, was still recovering from a series of injuries, as evidenced by the rather spectacular set of bruises just visible at the throat of his tunic. And the Master had not made use of this practice facility in many months, so he was probably a bit rusty. 

But it was still the best bet in town for pure entertainment. Over the years, their confrontations had become the stuff of legend, frequently wreaking havoc with equipment, facility, and - occasionally - bystanders.

"Padawan," said the Master, serene and unruffled as he always was - publicly, anyway, "did you advise anyone of our intentions?"

Obi-Wan smiled. "No, Master. But then, I never do, and they always seem to sense when you're going to spar."

Qui-Gon's eyes swept the arena, and came to rest on a large, somewhat shrill contingent of winsome young women, all swarming around the statuesque loveliness of Master Adi Gallia, in a far corner of the chamber. When his Master moved toward that area, Obi-Wan had no choice but to follow, although he had to struggle with his own inclination to beg his Master - through their bond - to go anywhere but there. There, where he recognized at least a half dozen charter members of the group that had declared itself his 'fan' club.

"I don't think," said Qui-Gon, suppressing a smile, "that all of these persons are here to see _me_ spar."

Adi Gallia, in the meantime, after subduing the rowdiness of her charges with a few well-chosen words, had separated herself from her entourage and came to greet her old friend with a gentle smile.

"Adi," he said softly, taking her outstretched hands.

"It's so good to see you here, Qui," she said, her voice soft and lyrical. She turned her smile on the padawan. "And you, too, Little One. We have all missed your - um - performances."

Obi-Wan blushed (to the accompaniment of delighted 'oohs' and 'ahs' from the gallery) as he bowed slightly.

"As I recall," said Qui-Gon, eyes alight with humor (and Obi-Wan's heart seemed ready to burst into song, as a result), "you weren't quite so thrilled with us the last time we sparred here."

She tried to maintain a stern visage, but, in the end, could only laugh. "It took me three weeks to restore that spa, and I never did manage to replace the decorative grill, which I should probably have saved to auction off, since its most noticeable damage was the imprint of one very elegant, slender backside." She glanced again at the apprentice, and the blush deepened.

"You didn't . . ." he began, completely aghast.

"No," she replied, after a pause, "but only because I didn't think of it. But someone else might have, because I don't know what finally became of it. Just think, there might be .. . ."

"I'd rather not," said Obi-Wan quickly. "If you don't mind."

The two Masters exchanged delighted smiles. The life of a Jedi had few perks, but teasing tender padawan sensibilities was one of the most precious.

"S-o-o-o," said Qui-Gon, "you decided . . ."

"That if you're going to wreck my spa again, it's going to be over my dead body, when you pry my lightsaber from my cold, dead fingers." Adi deliberately laid her hand on the delicately carved hilt of her saber.

"Make a note, Padawan," said Qui-Gon. "We are to avoid Master Gallia's spa, at all costs."

"Umm, Master? We didn't exactly set out to wreck it, last time."

"No, I suppose we didn't," agreed the tall Master. "And if my padawan was just sufficiently respectful to admit defeat when it's inevitable . . ."

"Admit?" Obi-Wan echoed, a small smile rapidly growing into a full grin. "Defeat? Me?"

"A wise man knows when he's beaten, Padawan," said the Master.

"A man is only beaten when he quits, Master," Obi-Wan replied.

Adi Gallia favored them both with a rueful grin, before turning away and going back to her companions. "Batten down the hatches, Ladies. This is going to be a fight to remember."

"Ummm," remarked Padawan Roscha Faryn, an Iegan with hair like a drift of silk, "I do hope it lasts a while. If he doesn't get all sweaty and wet, it's hardly worth it."

"Padawan," said Gallia firmly, "you are about to witness a match between two astonishingly gifted Jedi swordsmen. You should feel very privileged."

"Oh, I do, Master," replied the girl calmly. Then she flashed a brilliant smile. "But it certainly doesn't hurt if one of them has an as. . . um, a behind to die for."

"Shhhh," said Ciara Barosse. "You'll break his concentration."

"That's not all I'd like to break," retorted the other girl, unperturbed, as Obi-Wan and his Master - ignoring the stir around them - discarded their robes and strode to the center of the exercise area, and sank to their knees. With the press of the crowd surrounding them, the noise level was considerable; yet they seemed completely unaware of the attention focused on them.

By some trick of reflection and refraction, the waning light of the afternoon seemed to focus itself through the facets of the paristeel windows and form a sort of nimbus around the kneeling figures, bathing them both in a rose-tinted radiance, and somehow shutting out the rest of the world. Master Jinn was transformed into a mythic figure, a warrior of a forgotten time, his face chiseled from the stone of prehistory; his dignity and grace emphasized by every line of his massive body. And the padawan was breathtaking; light and shadow joined to paint a portrait of such perfect composition, that even his most ardent, breathless admirers were rendered silent. When, at last, he opened his eyes - gilded brilliant green now - the collective sigh was softer than a breath.

"Padawan, are you sure you're ready for this? Your ribs are not fully healed."

Obi-Wan smiled, and allowed a small chuckle to echo through the bond. "Worried, Master? After all, I'm not the one who's rusty."

Qui-Gon opened his eyes, and smiled at his Padawan, reaching out to tweak the braid he loved so much. "You think I'm rusty?"

The answering grin was brilliant. "I think you're the most dangerous man I know, rusty or not."

"You will yield, if your injuries flare up."

"Of course."

The Master peered into his padawan's eyes and saw love and laughter and sheer exuberance mirrored there.

"No. You won't. So you're going to force me to monitor your condition as well as my own. Aren't you?"

Wide-eyed, feigned innocence. "Isn't that what Masters are supposed to do?"

"I could just refuse to spar with you, you know. For your own protection."

"And disappoint your 'fan club', Master? Shame on you!"

Qui-Gon grinned and leaned forward until his forehead almost touched that of his Padawan. "You've not only grown bigger," he said softly. "You've grown cockier. It's a very good thing I didn't wait longer to come to my senses. The last thing we need around here is a swaggering padawan."

Obi-Wan laughed. "Too late, Master."

Easily, belying both his size and age, the Master rose to his full, impressive height. "I think you need taking down a peg or two, Little One. Ready?"

"Always."

"Very well, then. In the vernacular of the streets, show me what you've got."

They stood poised for a moment, lightsabers ignited, but unmoving, gathering the Force around them. The nimbus enclosing them seemed to pulse and intensify, and, when the padawan initiated the first move, it was almost beyond the capacity of the human eye to follow, a vertical, twisting leap, followed by a lightsaber slash, delivered obliquely across his body.

Qui-Gon avoided the slash, but not by a large margin, and laughed exultantly. "By the gods," he exclaimed with delight, "you've been practicing."

Obi-Wan landed lightly and spun to his left, to avoid the slice of his Master's blade. It was his role, in this duel, to take the offensive, to try to find the weakness in his Master's defenses, and he would not insult Qui-Gon by performing at a level below his capabilities, which were considerable. It was quickly obvious that his Master - although as skilled as ever - was somewhat surprised by the skills his Padawan demonstrated. Though they had fought together within the last five years, during missions that had taxed them both, they had not sparred together in a very long time. Qui-Gon deliberately did not focus on his neglect of his apprentice's training, for it was immediately obvious that Obi-Wan had suffered little from the non-attention. Five years, in the life of a boy in the process of becoming a man, was an eternity, and had wrought many, many changes. Obi-Wan was bigger, of course, but he was also much, much stronger, more agile, marginally faster, and, most impressive of all, much more cunning. Very shortly, the Master realized that the outcome of this match was no longer a foregone conclusion as had been the case in the past, and his heart felt as if it might burst with pride. His padawan really had grown up, and what a magnificent young man he had become. With an incredibly powerful leap and lunge, Obi-Wan thrust his azure blade up and in, and almost managed to deliver the blow that would end the match.

Qui-Gon grinned, and decided that if he didn't stop beaming at the boy like an idiot, he was going to get skewered, and in record time, too.

Obi-Wan felt his Master's approval, like a warm radiance, through their bond. But he also recognized the stiffening of his Master's resolve. 

"Not so fast, Little One. There's still a bit of fire in the old man."

"Really, Master?" 

Qui-Gon suppressed a groan as he read the mischief glinting brightly in those soul-piercing eyes. "Then catch me if you can."

The leap was almost totally vertical and flawless. Obi-Wan landed on a crossbeam, his balance and stance absolutely perfect. 

Qui-Gon laughed, and leapt. He was, of course, much larger than his Padawan, so his ascension seemed less like flying and more Force-driven. But his technique was every bit as precise and impressive.

The battle continued, much to the delight of the spectators, most of whom remembered to be wary, in spite of their enjoyment. It was not unheard of, in the heat of such a contest, for knights to plunge downward in the grip of the blood rush, and forget that there might be pedestrian bodies beneath them. Thus, when Obi-Wan executed a perfect, flying back flip and dropped like a stone to the floor, it was Master Ramal Dyprio, acting as a sort of unofficial referee, who reached out with the Force, and scattered a group of wide-eyed padawans, just in the nick of time. Although, Dyprio thought ruefully, the girls in the group looked as if they would have been perfectly content to be flattened by that much-admired body.

Qui-Gon, of course, was right behind him. His landing, again, might have lacked the lyrical grace of the boy's movements, but his strength and experience compensated for any inequity in agility. Obi-Wan leapt over a broad swing of the emerald blade while reaching out and looping his free arm around a support pole, thus spinning back to face his Master, his saber arm swinging wide.

Qui-Gon managed to block it - barely.

The proud smile in Obi-Wan's eyes was enough to stir the Master's soul, if he let it. For it was perfectly obvious that the little scamp was using his Master's emotional responses to mask his own intentions. Qui-Gon grinned. Very well, then. Two could most certainly play that game. But he was, nevertheless, heartened to note that his padawan had forgotten none of the lessons taught to him by his Master. Including the one that insisted that, in battle, there was no such thing as a fair fight.

"Don't brag too quickly, Little One." The bond sang with renewed strength.

"It's only bragging, Master, if you can't back it up."

Qui-Gon smiled. "Okay, Padawan. Let's see just how much you've learned. Your offence is pretty decent. Let's see your defense." 

For a split second, Obi-Wan looked shocked; as a rule, Masters did not take the offensive in these matches. Most believed that the padawan would learn more from being shown how to defend. Qui-Gon - ever the maverick - obviously disagreed.

"Ready?"

The apprentice took a fleeting moment to reinforce his link to the Force; then nodded. 

"No quarter, now. Everything you have. OK?"

Again, the boy nodded.

"Your injuries are not bothering you, are they?"

Finally, Obi-Wan simply stopped and looked at his Master with much love and much awareness in his eyes. "Are you going to talk me to death, or are we going to fight?"

Qui-Gon chuckled. "All right, you cheeky little snot. On your mark."

Obi-Wan knew all the moves, of course; he had learned them at his Master's knee. And he had used them in combat, more times than he could remember. And they had saved his life, also more times than he could remember.

But he had never used them against the man who had taught them to him, and he quickly realized it made a huge difference. If he were to have any chance of holding his own, he had to put his own special twist on what his Master had taught him. For it was quickly obvious that Qui-Gon was anticipating his every move, even more so than could be accounted for by the use of the Force. A stinging touch against his forearm was enough to bolster his resolve, and he danced away from the emerald blade easily. Seconds later, he scored his own touch, leaving an angry mark on his Master's shoulder.

Midnight blue eyes locked with blue-green, and exuberant laughter echoed through their bond.

The crowd around them was forced to scurry constantly to keep out of their way, except for knowledgeable Masters like Ramal Dyprio and Adi Gallia who had finally tired of moving and leapt up to find a spot overhead, out of harm's way for the most part. And when Obi-Wan went sliding out into the corridor, by virtue of a powerful Force push from his Master, the spectators rushed out with him so as not to miss anything. It was at this point that Master Gallia descended once more to the floor, and raced forward to stand in front of the doorway to her spa area; she knew all too well what two lightsabers, in the hands of two over-the-top duelists, could do to inanimate surfaces and carefully nurtured plantings. As the two fought their way past her position, she noted that her young charges should be pleased; both were wringing wet, their clothing plastered to their bodies.

Adi allowed herself one glance - one rather slow lingering glance - before raising her eyes resolutely. My, my, my, but the girls were absolutely correct; the boy had a spectacular body, and the Master's was pretty admirable as well. She stole a look at the faces of the nearest spectators and found them completely rapt, in one way or another. It was obvious what the young females were studying so intently; but it was also evident that the remainder of the crowd were almost equally enthralled with the expertise and grace of the battle.

In the end, it was one tiny unexpected circumstance that brought an end to the contest, and not a detail of their own making.

As Obi-Wan backed slowly toward a stairway, his blade weaving a complex defensive pattern before him, a tiny figure sprinted from a nearby corridor, and came streaking forward.

Despite the fact that the lightsabers were powered down, it was only by virtue of Jedi reflexes - and a willing act of self-sacrifice - that the tiny boy who raced into their midst, screaming for the Master to please not hurt his Obi, was not harmed. 

Obi-Wan went to his knees, white as paste, throwing his body forward to cover the child, raising his lightsaber over his head to fend off his Master's descending blow. Qui-Gon, who had sensed the disturbance in the Force almost simultaneously with seeing the desperation flare in his padawan's eyes, tried to pull back, but, in the end, it was Obi-Wan's blade that absorbed the force of the swing, and rebounded to drag across the padawan's upper back.

"Son of a Sith!" swore the apprentice, not quite under his breath, as the fabric of his tunic smoldered and charred against his skin.

"Get a healer," Qui-Gon said quickly, looking toward Adi Gallia, as he dropped to his knees beside his padawan.

Pandemonium, in the meantime, was erupting around them. Master Lao-Miel arrived, shaking and out of breath, as the crowd swirled around the combatants, eager to express their approval and/or amazement, or to simply get close enough to absorb the details of the final denouement, simply to be able to say - later - that they were there at a moment which would probably go down as one of the more colorful moments in Jedi lore.

"I'm all right, Master," Obi-Wan insisted, as Qui-Gon used the Force to separate the scorched tunic from his padawan's blackened skin and remove it.

The apprentice was, for the moment, much more concerned with the condition of the child squirming beneath him.

"Obi!" shouted the toddler, obviously frustrated with his inability to move.

"Okay, Little One," soothed the padawan, trying - without notable success - to lift himself enough to free the child while not interfering with his Master's ministrations.

"I'm so sorry, Padawan," said Master Lao. "He must have sensed something through your bond, because he took off like a scalded catling. I never saw a two-year-old move that fast. Not even you, when you were that age."

"Oh, I don't know," said Qui-Gon, with a small smile for the Creche Master. "I seem to remember an episode involving a honeycomb, and a nest of extremely angry bees."

Lao chuckled. "Well, you may be right. Obi-Wan was extraordinarily fond of honey. And he did manage to outrun that swarm - almost."

Obi-Wan, with a wry grin and a placating gesture to his Master, rolled to an upright position, though still on his knees, and lifted the little boy to his feet. The child seemed none the worse for his experience, except for a small abrasion on one grimy, little knee.

"Master," said Obi-Wan somberly, belying the twinkle in his eye, "I believe our young warrior here has sustained a battle injury."

Qui-Gon, finally assured that the burn on his Padawan's back, while ugly, was relatively minor, responded in kind. "Do you believe it will require the attention of a healer, Padawan?"

The apprentice opened his mouth to respond, but someone else beat him to it.

"I'll be the judge of that, thank you very much!"

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, and, careful to keep it under his breath, swore vividly - in three different languages. He knew that voice; had known it all his life. And the fact that he absolutely adored the person who owned it - on a purely personal level - did not mean that he relished her presence in any situation involving his health or physical condition.

"Hello, Mira," he said softly, resignation evident in the quality of his sigh.

Mirilent Soljan - a pale, undoubtedly cowed apprentice in tow - marched through the crowd of onlookers, as they parted before her like seawater before the prow of a battleship. Which was, come to think of it, not an unlikely analogy, for she approached Qui-Gon Jinn as if she were considering a torpedo launch toward his nether regions.

Obi-Wan was forced to cover a smile as the towering Master almost - not quite, but almost - quailed before the tiny Bimar healer.

"So," she snapped, tone dripping venom, "for years, you ignore him, and, then, when you finally come to your senses and realize that you've been behaving like a spoiled, self-centered ass, your first act is to get him hurt in a sparring match? What's next? Lessons in torture survival? Pain management?"

"Good evening, Mirilent," said Qui-Gon, trying to appear unperturbed.

"Mira," Obi-Wan began, "don't . . ."

"You," she said to the apprentice, eyes flashing dangerously, "shut up! I'll deal with you shortly."

Once more, she turned to the Master. "Well? Have you nothing to say for yourself?"

"Of course I do," he answered, his deepening calm in marked contrast to her obvious anger. "But if you think I'm going to discuss this, here, you're very much mistaken. The Jedi Code still demands discretion in the discussion of training bonds, does it not?"

For a moment, it appeared that she was going to force the issue - consequences (and witnesses) be damned - but she settled finally for audible grumbling, deliberately loud enough for the Master, as well as everybody else within two meters, to overhear.

"Damned silly Jedi nonsense," she muttered. "Too damned many secrets and too little plain speaking. Code! I'd like to tell them where to put their silly code!"

As she spoke, she had managed to force Obi-Wan to lean forward, to expose the full extent of the burn to her Force probe. With huge, worried eyes, a tiny figure stood pressed against the padawan's side.

"It's all right, Little One," crooned the Bimar healer, motioning her apprentice forward with her medical bag. "Young Kenobi is going to be just fine. Physically anyway. I've been repairing this body since he was just about your size."

Wordlessly, Jorgal nodded.

"Healer Soljan," said Obi-Wan, very formally, despite his rather awkward position, "our young friend here also requires your attention. He has quite a nasty wound on his knee."

"So I see," replied Mira, her smile gentle. "Just as soon as I give our brave knight here a little incentive . . ." A quick jab of her fingers at the edge of the burn caused Obi-Wan to jerk upright and gasp for breath, "to not let this happen again, I'm going to take care of that. Okay?"

"Sadist!" mumbled Obi-Wan, not quite inaudibly.

She quickly applied a bacta-soaked bandage to his wound, and leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "Bet you thought I wouldn't hear about your little tumble, didn't you? Or about the cracked ribs? Or the weight you've lost?"

He groaned, knowing he was caught and there was no escape. "Mira, I'll . . ."

"Save your breath," she interrupted. "In my office. Tomorrow. Or I declare you unfit for duty."

"You can't . . ."

"Obi-Wan," she said firmly, "you know I can, if I so choose. So you will be there, or else."

Qui-Gon, who was hovering like a doting parent, chuckled softly. "It is, somehow, comforting to know, in such a static universe, that some things never change. You're a tyrant, Mirilent."

"And you're an idiot," she snapped, completely uncowed. "You come with him."

"Now, wait . . ."

She surged to her feet, and stood facing him, arms akimbo. "You were saying?"

Obi-Wan, this time, didn't even bother to try to conceal his grin. Qui-Gon wilted under her gaze, like day-old lettuce. The sight of the towering Jedi Master, dignity and power written in every line of his bearing, floundering in the face of the tiny Bimar, who was barely half his height and a quarter of his weight, but fully twice as outraged, was ludicrous, and more than one bystander was forced to turn away to hide a smile or to disguise a snicker as a cough.

"Very well," said Qui-Gon finally, knowing that there was absolutely no way to salvage a single shred of his dignity. His glare, as he caught the laughter leaping in his padawan's eyes, was icy.

The Master looked up and instantly spotted the means of his own little revenge. For though the crowd around them had begun to thin somewhat, the bevy of wide-eyed young women had, if anything, grown larger. When he looked down, and noted that his padawan was still naked to the waist, thus displaying rippling muscles and a flat, washboard stomach, and obviously looking completely fetching, from the distaff perspective, he debated, for a moment, if he should, perhaps, rise above the temptation.

But only for a moment.

"Padawan," he announced, "I've just remembered an errand I must run. But I don't want to leave you alone to make your way back to our quarters. You are, after all . . ." he allowed just the tiniest trace of an evil glint to flare in his eyes, "injured. Now if any of these young ladies would be kind enough . . ."

"Master!" Obi-Wan gasped, eyes wide with disbelief. 

The surge of the crowd almost knocked the elder Jedi off his feet.

With a chuckle, Qui-Gon turned and headed for the lift, thinking that a turn through the Temple gardens would provide a pleasant diversion, while allowing enough time for his padawan to fully understand the concept of payback.

 _"I'll get you for this."_ The message was loud and clear, and ringing with the joy of their renewed bond.

_"A Jedi craves not revenge, Padawan."_

There was a spate of giggles from behind him as he walked into the lift cage, and Qui-Gon caught only a syllable or two of the apprentice's response.

Which was just as well. He wasn't sure he was still capable of washing the boy's mouth out with soap.

 

***************** *********************** ********************

 

Jarielle Fer'mia allowed herself to sink into a rickety arm chair, as the last few of the evening's diners made their way to the exit. There was still much to be done before she could call it a day, but she needed a moment to catch her breath. Actually, on a day like this, she needed more than that, and she thought longingly, for just a moment, of the euphoria so easily obtainable, in a surrender to the charms of glitterstem. A costly surrender, to be sure; it had, after all, taken her vision. She had been very young then; too young, she sometimes thought, to have paid such a staggering price. But spice was a pitiless master; it cared nothing for the suffering of its slaves. It granted instant paradise; in return, it demanded everything you had.

An equitable trade.

Until you woke up one morning and found that - for you - it would never be morning again.

Wearily, she rested her head in her hands and was not surprised to feel strong young hands on her back, kneading away the knots of tension, working out the kinks of exhaustion.

"Why are you here?" she asked, reaching up to caress that perfect young face.

"Where else would I be?" he answered, the sweetness of his Deep Core accent falling gently on her ear.

"Sit with me for a while," she asked, and felt him slide into the chair beside her, his hands resting atop hers.

"You're exhausted," he accused, studying the blank loveliness of her eyes.

"Long day," she replied.

He laughed. "Long decade, for you. Jari, you're wearing yourself out, here."

Now it was her turn. She smiled gently. "Obi-Wan, you're a fine one to talk. How much sleep are you getting these days?"

"I'm a Jedi," he replied, as if that trumped all her questions.

"So? That means you don't need sleep?"

"It means I don't need as much as other people, anyway."

For a few minutes, they simply sat in companionable silence. "I wasn't sure you'd be back," she said finally.

"Why would you say that?" He sounded genuinely confused.

She sighed. "Your Master has, shall we say, decided to return from the dead. I wasn't sure he'd allow you to continue coming here."

"Jari," he said softly, squeezing her hands gently, "being Jedi doesn't mean I'm a drone. It's not like that. He wouldn't try to stop me."

She laughed softly. "Are you sure? I somehow think Master Jinn wouldn't be entirely sanguine with the idea of his fair-haired boy wandering around the hellholes of Coruscant."

"Well . . ."

"Yes?"

"He did sort of suggest that I might want to arrange for some back-up."

They laughed together. She reached out and, with exquisite gentleness, explored his face with her fingers. It was a ritual to which her dearest friends were accustomed; it was just something she sometimes seemed to need to do.

"So beautiful," she breathed. "He loves you very much, you know."

Obi-Wan didn't answer, and, although she couldn't actually see him, she sensed his disquiet. "You're still not convinced. Are you?"

He turned his head and kissed the palm of her hand. "For someone who's blind," he observed, "you see entirely too much."

He started to stand.

"Wait, Obi," she said abruptly, trying to steady her nerves.

"I need to finish up," he said, obviously distracted. "The boys will . . ."

"They're not coming," she interrupted.

"Not coming?" he echoed. "No. They said they'd . . ."

"As a favor to me," she said. "I asked them to skip it tonight."

He settled back into his chair, and took a moment to study her expression. Then he reached out through the Force and was shaken by the turmoil he sensed within her. Jarielle, most of the time, was a pool of serenity. Tonight, she was a leaf, caught in a tempest. 

"What's wrong?" he asked, "and why didn't you mention it earlier?"

She took a deep breath. "Bear with me, Obi. I need to set up a little background here."

Once more, he took her hand. "Take your time. As much as you need."

Abruptly, she felt the sting of tears in her eyes. "You know," she said absently, "when I first went blind, it used to surprise me that I could still cry. I mean, nothing else about my eyes worked. Why should that? Silly, huh?"

He simply squeezed her hand and waited.

"You know I'm Drimulan," she continued finally.

"Yes."

"You know the history of Drimula?"

"Only what's common knowledge," he answered. "It's a world at war. Has been for decades. Isolated. Cut-off from the rest of the galaxy. Blockaded by the various warring factions."

She nodded. "All true. But it's not much knowledge, is it? Does anyone really know about the world itself? Its people? Its culture?"

He shook his head, forgetting that she couldn't see the gesture. "I saw some of its pre-modern artifacts a few years ago. In a museum on Alderaan. They were very delicate and quite beautiful."

She smiled. "Do you find me beautiful, Obi-Wan?"

He reached out and stroked her cheek with a single finger. "Exquisite," he answered instantly. And meant it. A froth of black hair, crowning an elfin face, with a small, sculpted nose, rosebud mouth, dark, winged brows above huge, deep gray eyes, with pale skin showing just the faintest trace of silver; all of this contributed to a delicate, fragile loveliness that was not only pleasing to the eye, but inspired the beholder with an urge to protect and preserve such beauty.

"I have four sisters," she said slowly. "And I am the plainest of them all."

"I don't believe that," he answered.

"It's true, nevertheless," she replied. "I don't tell you this so you'll marvel at our loveliness; and I'm not fishing for compliments. I want to try to make you see what my homeworld is really like. Or what it should be like. If only, this horrible war was over."

"Jari . . ."

"The Jedi," she continued, as if she hadn't heard him, "have refused to intervene."

"Jari," he tried again, "I don't know enough about the situation to say very much, but I do know that the Council's hands were tied when the last request came in. The Jedi simply can't assume a partisan role in internal disputes. And there are too many factions competing for power on your world. It's too fractured. Until someone manages to band some of the people together, to form a coalition with a large enough political base to make a formal request . . . "

"And how," said a voice from the shadows, "do you suppose that might be done?"

Obi-Wan was on his feet faster than the eye could follow, but, unfortunately, one of the rules he abided by when he was in the mission was that his lightsaber must not be carried on his person.

Nevertheless, he was Jedi, and a lightsaber might be his primary weapon, but it certainly wasn't his only one. 

"Obi, don't" said Jarielle quickly, as she sensed the power of the Force funneling toward him, like air rushing into a vacuum.

The figure that stepped out of the shadows, empty hands extended to his side, was obscured almost entirely by a dark cape. Only gloved hands, and the face were visible.

Obi-Wan studied the face for a moment, then darted a glance toward Jarielle, eyes widening.

"My brother," she volunteered.

"I see the resemblance now," said the apprentice, a flatness in his voice that she had never heard before.

She huffed a small sigh. "I think you're reputation precedes you," she said to the new arrival.

"So I see." 

Obi-Wan settled back into his chair. "I know who you are, or, at least, I know what they call you. It would be interesting to know your real name."

The man came forward, moving with easy grace, apparently complete undaunted by the prospect of facing a Jedi padawan. Despite the fact that said padawan had obviously recognized the face; the face that was depicted on wanted posters plastered all over the galaxy.

The Ghost, they called him.

Smuggler. Arms dealer. Thief. Pirate.

Nonchalantly, he removed his gloves, discarded his cape, revealing dark clothing on a muscular frame, long legs, encased in knee-high boots. Swarthy face, handsome in a film-star way, dark hair caught back in a band at the nape of his neck, gray-green eyes, thick-lashed, straight nose, generous mouth, deeply cleft chin. A custom blaster hung at his hip, its holster strapped securely to his thigh. He hooked a chair from a nearby table and straddled it, resting his arms across its back. His eyes never wavered from Obi-Wan's face.

He moved with the grace and economy of movement of a great catling.

This, Obi-Wan knew immediately, was a dangerous man. And would have known it, even if he had not recognized the face. 

For several moments, there was complete silence. The Jedi padawan, after a brief flare of surprise, had found his calm center and was content to wait.

Finally, the Ghost - who appeared to be entirely corporeal - grinned. "We could just sit here and wait to see who blinks first, but that wouldn't be very productive, would it?"

Obi-Wan smiled. "You've obviously set this up carefully. You waited until everyone else was gone, on a night when I'm scheduled to teach a self-defense seminar, which your sister has conveniently cancelled. So why don't you tell me what you wanted to see me about?"

A speculative gleam sparked in gray-green eyes, that should have been cold, but, somehow, weren't. "You surprise me, Jedi. My sister told me you would be willing to hear me out. But I have to confess, I thought you'd have summoned your Master by now."

"How do you know I haven't?"

Surprise flared in a face that probably wasn't caught off guard too frequently, and a grin formed, and became a soft laugh. "I guess I don't, but, somehow, I don't think so."

Obi-Wan glanced at Jarielle, who was wringing her hands, though she was trying to be unobtrusive about it. With a smile, the padawan reached out and laid his hand on hers, while projecting a calming impulse into her consciousness.

"We're making Jari nervous," he said softly. "I think you better say whatever it is you came to say."

The silence continued for a few more seconds, as the 'Ghost' regarded the Jedi solemnly. Obi-Wan sat quietly, refusing to squirm. He knew he was being judged, and had no idea by what criterion, but he would not be intimidated.

Finally, the inspection, it seemed, was over.

"My name," said the Ghost, "is Arain Fer'mia. And I have come to ask for your help, Jedi. The people of Drimula are dying. Without help, within a decade, our planet will be a lifeless, barren rock."

Obi-Wan listened carefully, and not just with his ears. Through the Force, he could easily discern truth from falsehood. Usually. There were, of course, some individuals who were such convincing liars that they could actually dampen their Force signatures to disguise dishonesty, but he didn't think that was the case here. He was, however, only a padawan, and he was forced to conclude that he could be wrong. For such a serious situation as this, the expertise of a Jedi Master was needed.

"Explain," was all he said.

"The information which has been distributed throughout the known galaxy concerning the situation on Drimula is false. There are not, as you have been told, dozens of factions competing for power. Not any more, anyway. There are, in fact, only two involved in the struggle."

"Go on."

"The ruling party - the Triumvirate and their minions - are one faction. The second is . . . everybody else. Only, there are not so many everybody elses left, any more."

"I don't understand."

"Do you know what tagmonditurium is, Jedi?"

Obi-Wan nodded. "The essential component in building planetary shield deflectors."

"Do you know how rare it is?"

"I know that galactic supplies are being depleted rapidly. And that it's extremely dangerous to mine and refine, because it generates an unstable energy field prior to refinement, as well as toxic residue."

"Almost thirty years ago," said Fer'mia, his gaze steady and unflinching, "the members of the ruling Triumvirate made a huge discovery on Drimula. Beneath the outer crust of the planet, roughly six kilometers down, if our information is correct, there is a layer of almost pure tagmonditurium."

Obi-Wan leaned forward. "And the government is . . what? Mining it?"

Fer'mia nodded. "Massive mining operations. The general population is being forced to work the mines. Of course, they don't last long, but then the government just brings in the next batch. The supply is virtually unlimited and expendable."

"Then you must gather evidence of this, and . . ."

"Jedi," said Fer'mia, raising a restraining hand, "we're not complete fools, you know. We have amassed much evidence and sought the aid of your respected Senate."

"And?"

Jarielle leaned forward and placed her hand on Obi-Wan's arm. "Drimula is not a member of the Republic."

"Nevertheless . . ."

Fer'mia shook his head. "Nothing. They refused to act. Not their jurisdiction. And the carefully amassed evidence somehow just . . . disappeared."

"But . . ."

"We have since learned," continued the Drimulan, "that the Republic is one of the largest underwriters of the mining consortium which is Drimula's biggest investor."

Obi-Wan tried to swallow the lump that rose suddenly in his throat.

"It's poisoning our world, Obi-Wan," said Jarielle. "Even if it were stopped today, it isn't certain that it hasn't already gone too far."

"How many . . ."

"Over twenty million already dead," said Fer'mia. "Men, women and children. The poison makes no distinction."

Obi-Wan shuddered. "What do you want me to do?"

Arain Fer'mia gazed at the young apprentice, not without sympathy. "We need a voice," he said finally. "An advocate that will not be subject to suspicion. We need a Jedi."

"But I'm just . . ."

Jarielle stopped him with a hand on his arm. "You're not 'just' anything. You're Obi-Wan Kenobi, and that matters to a lot of people."

Obi-Wan shook his head. "You," he said gently, "are partial. Look, I'm willing to speak on your behalf to the Council. Bring me your evidence, and I'll do what I can. But if you've already approached them . . ."

"Your Council," said Fer'mia coldly, "is just as subject to corruption and influence as the Senate."

"That's not true," said the Padawan hotly, losing, for just a moment, his calm center.

"No? Then we will abide by your wishes, for the moment. And allow you to approach your Council with our petition. But know this, young Kenobi. If this gets out, if it is learned that we have succeeded in getting someone to champion our cause, then thousands of Drimulans will die, no matter what the outcome of our petition. This is how the Triumvirate maintains discipline. It is very hard to fight for freedom, when the family of the fighters is subject to extermination at the whim of any petty political boss."

Obi-Wan turned haunted eyes to his lovely, sightless friend. "Your sisters?" he said softly.

She said nothing, but the tears that welled in her eyes spoke volumes.

The padawan turned back to gaze into the face of her brother, trying to discern the man beneath the image. Arain sat quietly, apparently trying to allow the examination, without prejudice. 

"It would be better," said Obi-Wan finally, "for you to talk to my Master."

"No."

"He is more . . ."

"No. Understand me, Jedi. My instincts are screaming a bloody red alert at me, as we speak. I trust my sister's judgement, and she vouches for you without reservation. After speaking with you, I tend to agree with her opinion, but further than this, I will not go. That I value my own hide sufficiently not to want to risk it is true, but it's more than that. Pitiful and ineffectual as my efforts might be, to stop this carnage, if I don't do it, who will?"

Obi-Wan nodded. "Bring me the evidence. If what you say is true, this is not a political matter any longer. This is genocide. I will present it for you."

Fer'mia nodded, and rose. "Two weeks from today. Here."

"Why not sooner?"

Fer'mia smiled. "I thought the Jedi were known for their patience."

"But if people are dying so quickly . . ."

The Drimulan nodded. "You're right. Many more will die before you can even make our case for us. But, unfortunately, the evidence must be smuggled out. In the process, many Drimulans will die, but it must be done. Will you be here?"

Obi-Wan nodded. "Unless I'm out on a mission. Jedi padawans aren't allowed to refuse missions. But I'll come as soon as I return, if that's the case."

"I don't suppose," said Fer'mia, "there's any point in asking you not to mention this to your Master."

"None at all," replied Obi-Wan.

"That's what I thought."

"I couldn't keep it from him if I tried. But you need not be alarmed. He's a very wise man. He may think of solutions to the problem that haven't occurred to anyone else."

Fer'mia glanced at his sister and clearly read her misgivings in her face.

"This is the same Master," he said slowly, "who spent the last five years shutting you out of his life?"

Jarielle closed her eyes. "I'm sorry, Obi," she said softly. "In order for him to trust you, he had to know everything about you that I know."

Obi-Wan just nodded. He still felt somewhat betrayed, but betrayal was something he was not unfamiliar with, and he understood the reasoning.

"The real question," said Arain, stepping closer and looking deep into the Padawan's eyes, "is do you trust him not to do it again?"

For just a moment, Obi-Wan's eyes flickered, and Fer'mia had his answer, no matter what the boy might say.

"It's on your head," he whispered. "Just remember that, before you tell anybody anything. How much guilt can a man bear?"

And that's when he saw it. Saw the horrible black shadow, broad-winged and taloned, rise in the apprentice's eyes and swallow all traces of light.

Arain reached out and laid his hands on Obi-Wan's shoulders. "No more, my young friend. You've already taken on enough. Be very sure, before you speak."

The padawan could only nod.

Jarielle stood beside the apprentice as Arain shrugged into his cape, embraced her quickly, and was gone.

Obi-Wan stood in the last pool of light within the mission, as Jarielle quickly extinguished all the other lights. For minutes, he didn't move at all. Even when Jari said her good nights and left him to find her way to the small apartment in the upper level of the mission, he still stood motionless, lost in thought.

He was marginally amazed, for when Arain Fer'mia had walked away from him, he had experienced a completely unexpected sensation; he felt bereft, as if a source of light and warmth had been taken from him.

What was this man, that he could generate such a remarkable sensation? He was a criminal, even though his motives might have been pure. Still he was an acknowledged pirate and a thief.

So why was it that the young Jedi somehow knew that he had just met someone who was going to be a pivotal influence in his life, someone who just might turn out to be the best friend he had ever had?

He sighed and went to lock up the mission. He didn't have any answers. He wasn't even sure he had the right questions.

He only knew one thing.

Unless it proved to be impossible, he would not speak of this meeting tonight, to anyone, until the time was right.

It would be the first secret he had ever set out to keep from his Master, and he was already wondering which was worse: to keep the secret, and feel the guilt of betraying Qui-Gon's trust; or to let it slip, and risk uncounted lives, lost through a careless word, uttered in the wrong place. The simple truth was that he had met with a wanted fugitive - however unwittingly - and he did not want his Master to assume guilt by association. At least, that's what he told himself.

As he left the mission, he stretched aching muscles, and registered the pull of the bandage across his back, and remembered the dreadful horror in Qui-Gon's eyes as he had examined the wound.

For just a moment, the Padawan felt caught, like an insect in amber. It seemed that he could not move in any direction without betraying somebody.

So he would simply sit tight and pray that the Force was with him.

Obi-Wan moved through the darkness of Coruscant's underworld, senses alert for danger, but somehow, completely unaware of the eyes that followed him so avidly.

In the thick shadow of an adjacent alleyway, a cloaked figure was no more than a thicker darkness, barely moving, ambient light reflecting in deep cerulean eyes, breath masked by a voluminous cape.

Such a beautiful boy. Jinn had always liked beautiful boys. And so trusting - so devoted to his Master.

_How will it be, I wonder, when those luminous eyes perceive the final betrayal? Perhaps he will need comforting. Oh, that would be delicious, to comfort Jinn's beautiful padawan, and then, once the deception is exposed, to show him how broken and eager the child was - at the end. Yes-s-s. I must think this through. So much better than just a simple killing. So much better for him to suffer, as I sample the pleasures of the boy's beautiful body. Sweet revenge, indeed._

Cold eyes, frosted like glass on a frozen morning, seemed to flare in the darkness, as Qui-Gon Jinn's beautiful padawan disappeared into the night.

 

************** ******************* **************** 

 

tbc


	6. Comes the Dark

Chapter 6: Comes the Dark

_"The sun's rim dips; the stars rush out: At one stride comes the dark."_

\-- Samuel Taylor Coleridge / _"The Ancient Mariner"_

Obi-Wan woke - reluctantly, as always - to the electronic beep of his alarm, and stifled the urge to send it sailing through the open window and out into the crystal light of morning. He had been rising at virtually the same hour every day for most of his life - at least, on those days when he was in residence at the Temple - and he still despised those first few moments of waking. Obi-Wan Kenobi, throughout his life, would never be a morning person. He endured it; he dealt with it; but he never stopped hating it. 

As he buried his head under a welter of blankets and pillows, he heard the unmistakable sound of his door opening.

"Obi-Wan?"

"Muphamgliflmph." At least, that's what it sounded like.

"Easy for you to say," laughed Qui-Gon, moving to sit on the edge of his padawan's sleep couch.

Very carefully, the Master held out the plate he was carrying, allowing the aroma of the palindo egg omelet it bore to penetrate the nest enclosing his apprentice.

One baleful eye found its way clear of the bed coverings, followed by a nose, wrinkling appreciatively.

"Braclgruph?"

"Careful, Padawan. That was - almost - distinguishable. Are you hungry?"

Two eyes now, brilliant turquoise in the morning light, though still only partly visible beneath drooping lids.

"You cooked." Within the mumbled words, still wrapped in lingering somnolence, was a nuance of amazement.

"It is, so I'm told, like riding a bicycle. One never forgets how. Now, are you going to stay under there for the duration, or come out and eat?"

For a moment, as the padawan evaluated just how cozily comfortable he was in his nice, warm environment, it was a toss-up. But, finally, a rumble in his stomach convinced him, and he crawled toward the plate in Qui-Gon's hand.

The Master chuckled gently, raising a cautionary finger. "I do not believe that one bandage on your back is sufficient justification for breakfast in bed, so I suggest you get your - what did Adi call it? - elegant little backside into a pair of pants, and come to the table."

As unself-conscious as a catling cub, the Padawan rolled out of bed, shucked his sleep pants, and stretched luxuriously, brilliant sunlight streaming over his nakedness. Qui-Gon smiled; yes, the boy had most definitely grown up, and apparently had never registered the fact that there were other towers of the Jedi Temple, visible in the near distance, beyond the paristeel windows. The Master would have been willing to lay a sizeable wager on there being at least one telescope trained on this very window, at this very moment, if, that is, he had been a betting man.

He thought back to his own padawan experiences and realized immediately that the probability of the existence of such a telescope, given the ever accelerating pace at which young people seemed to grow up and reach for sexual gratification, approached near certainty. He looked out and spotted the glint of movement in not one, but three different windows in two adjacent towers.

With a grin that was just the slightest bit sadistic, the Master reached out, and activated the privacy shield that cut off any outside vision, while blocking a significant portion of the sun's rays.

"Hey," said Obi-Wan, now rummaging in a dresser for clean clothing, "I like the sunlight."

"Umm hmm, and it undoubtedly likes you. In fact, I would think it positively makes you glow."

"Say what?" It was obvious that the boy had no idea what his Master meant.

Qui-Gon debated just walking away, and saying nothing. 

But that wasn't what Masters were supposed to do. "Obi-Wan, I think it might be wise if you kept the shields in place when you are undressed, or engaged in any kind of activity that you wish to keep private."

"Why?" said the Padawan, pulling on a pair of trousers that had seen better days, but were clean, nonetheless.

"Because, Little One, there are prying eyes everywhere. As in the towers out there. Eyes, I would imagine, that are kept peeled for sights like your nude body. Eyes that, through the use of a small telescope, could probably count the number of freckles on your much-sought-after little backside."

For a moment, it didn't register. When it did, blue-green eyes grew huge. "You don't mean . . ." He turned to gaze out the window, which had now, effectively become a one-way viewscreen. It did not take long for him to find the signs of activity. "Oh, for Sith's sake, that is so sick!"

"They probably don't agree," replied Qui-Gon, perfectly calm.

"But, they're - they're peeping."

"And they might think that you're just exhibiting your charms. Can you blame someone for looking at what is displayed so openly?"

There was a half knock on the bedroom door, and Ciara Barosse came strolling in, her smile as bright as light on water.

Interestingly, thought Qui-Gon, despite his previous disgruntlement with insidious peepers, Obi-Wan seemed not perturbed in the least by the fact that his friend had blithely barreled into his bedroom while he was still only partially dressed. Nor did it escape the Master's notice that the girl was equally as nonchalant. 

"You OK, Chum?" she asked, as she entered.

Without undue haste, the Padawan finished pulling on his trousers, and tossed her a rueful grin. "Nothing hurt but my pride."

"You guys," she continued, perching on the edge of the bed, "need to learn to lock your door. I didn't even have to knock."

"If you're not safe in the Temple . . ." Obi-Wan began.

"Hey. If that's the way you feel, don't whine when one of your lovesick fans decides she just have to have a pair of your skivvies to sleep with, or something else equally intimate."

Obi-Wan regarded his friend solemnly for a moment; then his eyes narrowed. "You knew, didn't you?"

"Knew what?"

Half angry, half amused, he stalked toward her. "How many telescopes are trained on my window?"

"Oh, that!"

"Yes, that! How many?"

She thought for a minute. "At last count, six. There were seven, but Master Billaba caught Padawan de'Lasca with his and made him take it down."

"Him?"

Qui-Gon, not totally successfully, tried to conceal his amusement. "De'Lasca is  
Baromian, Padawan."

"Ahhh. Of course." His gaze as he stared at his fellow Padawan was stern. "You could have told me, you know."

But Ciara knew him too well, and was completely unintimidated. "Why? It's all harmless fun. Most of them know that, whatever thoughts they have about you, it's all just fantasy."

He picked up immediately on the key word. "Most?"

She grinned. "Yeah, well, the rest just want to find a way to tie you to a bed and bring out the whipped cream and caroba sauce." 

Obi-Wan groaned as Qui-Gon, unable to contain the urge any longer, sputtered with laughter.

"Come have breakfast, Irresistable Force," said the Master, "and Padawan Barosse is welcome to join us."

Ciara declined to eat, having already dined with her Master (she was - as Obi-Wan frequently pointed out - one of those 'weird' morning people) but she did sit with them while Obi-Wan consumed a huge quantity of omelet, toast, and poured two cups of "caffeinated poison" - according to Ciara - down his throat. She sipped muja juice, and watched the interplay between padawan and Master, contentment wrapped around her like a cape. It had been far, far too long since she had seen the glow of joy in her friend's eyes, and she didn't intend to miss a single minute of it.

Obi-Wan was in the middle of a (somewhat embellished) account of his suffering at the hands of his admirers on being escorted back to his quarters on the previous day - much to the amusement of his Master and his friend - when there was a discreet knock on the door.

Master Ramal Dyprio entered, but did not advance into the apartment any further than was necessary to catch his padawan's attention.

Ciara sprang to her feet, a pretty flush staining her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Master," she said quickly. "I . . . lost track of time."

Dyprio nodded, his dark eyes picking out the details of the domestic scene before him, missing nothing. "So it seems. I believe we reserved time in the work-out room, Padawan, and, if you don't scoot, we're going to be late."

With a wiggle of fingers, Ciara was gone, muttering something about two shakes.

Obi-Wan glanced at his chrono, and his eyes widened. "Oh, shi-um, darn! I've gotta go, too. Class in nine minutes."

"Obi-Wan," called Qui-Gon, as the apprentice raced to his bedroom for the remainder of his clothes,"Unfortunately, we can't forget to see Mirilent today."

"Right," replied the apprentice, voice muffled by the tunic draped over his head. "Right after lunch. OK?"

"And the mission report?"

"Right after class. I'll summarize it for you."

Qui-Gon nodded. "I have a meeting with a Senate sub-committee concerning the truce on Bajai, but I'll try to wrap it up quickly so we can review the report together."

The padawan's reply was lost in the closing of the door as he sprinted into the corridor, then came back to grab a data pad from the table, and exited again, boots beating a staccato tympanny on the marble floor.

Masters Qui-Gon Jinn and Ramal Dyprio exchanged smiles - somewhat reserved, it was true - but smiles, nonetheless.

"I don't remember ever having that much energy," remarked Ramal.

Qui-Gon nodded. "And I don't remember ever being quite so casual about intimacy."

Ramal grinned. "They're not."

"No. I didn't suppose they were, but . . ."

Midnight blue eyes met near black, and both men laughed softly. "Well, what do you know?" said Dyprio. "I think we've actually found something we can agree on."

"Wonders never cease, so I'm told."

"They would be beyond breathtaking," observed the swarthy Corellian.

Qui-Gon nodded. "The thoughts of offspring of Ciara Barosse and Obi-Wan Kenobi. Rather boggles the mind, doesn't it?"

Dyprio grinned. "Frankly, it scares the hell out of me. I don't know if the Temple - or the galaxy - could survive it."

Master Jinn smiled, and Dyprio was, somehow, not surprised to read the faintest trace of wistfulness in his counterpart's demeanor. "But oh, how beautiful they would be!"

Suddenly, as from a great distance, a huge shadow seemed to plunge toward them, freezing both in a momentary darkness. Qui-Gon felt cold fingers of dread clutch at his heart.

It lasted only a moment, and neither chose to voice what was in his mind when it was gone.

But both took from it one small particle of absolute certainty: whatever the future might hold for their two padawans, there would be no offspring of their joining. There would, in fact, be no joining. 

Qui-Gon sighed. He wasn't sure, but he thought that might just prove to be one of the major tragedies of his padawan's life.

*************** ****************** ******************

 

Obi-Wan laid the datapad on top of his desk, and leaned back in his chair, balancing on the two back legs. A frown creased his brow and clouded his eyes.

He had read the mission report through twice. And he still didn't understand why they had been assigned this mission.

The report seemed straightforward enough. More than ten years ago, a facility had been established on an isolated island on the remote middle-rim world of Mejanis by a team of Jedi, to house a group of children rescued from a research lab on Polmyrix. The children had been subjected to a series of genetic experiments and DNA manipulation by a renegade group of bio-scientists, apparently intent on creating a "Master" race.

Obi-Wan sighed and wondered how many thousands - or millions - of victims would be required to pay the ultimate cost, before someone figured out that the Force, by its nature, determined the evolution of superiority.

The children, it was believed, might turn out to be dangerous, both to themselves and to others; thus the tight security surrounding the project, and the classification of the facility as NTKO - "need to know only". And, thus, as well, the remote physical location of the facility

The Jedi had been required to oversee the project because of the nature of the children involved; all were believed to be highly Force sensitive, with midi-chlorian counts consistently registering well above normal. A Jedi team, consisting of a pair of Locabarian Masters, had been left in charge of the project.

For many years, all had been relatively well, with only minor occurrences to disturb the peace of the facility.

Until now. Now, when the oldest of the children had achieved puberty, with all the physical and emotional ramifications of that transitional phase. Metabolic and hormonal changes had triggered unforeseen consequences. The children were manifesting abilities never before encountered among Force wielders, although most had no great facility in utilizing the Force. Their talent lay, instead, in a completely new direction; they could not use it; they could only deny its use to others. The pubescent children were acting as biological Force inhibitors. And, in the manner of children everywhere, they were beginning to understand and appreciate the power they generated.

Obi-Wan suppressed a shiver. 

He looked at the listing again. Seventeen humanoids, including four Corellians, four Alderaanians, three twi'leks, one K'hiria Melasian, two Chal Si, one Nubian, one Noorian, and one Telosian; plus three Bothans, one Gamorrhean, and one Rhodian.

An eclectic group - all designated by simple names and numbers: Rogy 2, Duby 1, Yoni 3, Xani 2, etc.

And not a single clue as to why Master Yoda would have concluded that Obi-Wan and his Master were "uniquely qualified" to undertake this mission. The padawan knew the ancient Jedi Master too well to assume he had spoken without meaning: Yoda always meant something; the trick was in figuring out what it was.

The information in the briefing document was perfectly clear; it outlined the problem, without proposing a solution, but that was as it should be. Any solution would be determined by the Jedi team on site, once the evaluation of the situation was concluded.

But there was too much left unsaid. 

What kind of experiments had been done on these children, and who were the renegades who performed them, and where had the children come from, in the first place? Had any effort ever been made to return them to their homes, and, if so, why was there no record of the attempt? Obi-Wan scanned the report again. It didn't even identify the Jedi who had set up the facility originally, so he had no idea who to approach for more information.

Except for the one encrypted file; the one signified by the esoteric rune shown at the bottom of the report, which had, thus far, eluded his every attempt to gain access.

But someone, he thought, might just have been a bit too clever. In leaving the file there, in the assumption that no one would be able to break the code. For he was surprised to realize that he recognized that complex glyph, if he could only remember where he had seen it before.

The report was signed by Master Ge'lias ru Caeri, one half of the Locabarian Jedi team that had been charged with the oversight of the facility since its establishment. Caeri was requesting a re-evaluation of policy concerning the disposition of these children and the future of the project; he was also asking to be relieved of his duties. The other half of the team - Insa, Ge'lais' mate - was dead. Found face-down in a shallow stream that meandered through the facility grounds. No signs of a struggle; no marks on the body. Just dead.

Obi-Wan rose and went to stare out across the cityscape, his arms crossed, eyes focused on something far away.

What was he missing? There was the stubbornly encrypted file, of course, but there was something else here. Something he should see.

He took a deep breath. Look again, he thought. From a different perspective.

The facility was located on Mejanis, remote, somewhat primitive, sparsely populated. Was there a clue there?

No. For the story did not begin there.

It began on Polmyrix.

And Obi-Wan realized abruptly that he had absolutely no idea where Polmyrix was.

Quickly, he accessed the Temple database and ran an inquiry.

Polmyrix:  
1\. Political subdivision of Bothawai.  
2\. Secondary continent of Ord Mantell.  
3\. Smallest of the moons of Telos.

Smallest of the moons of Telos.

Obi-Wan sank into his chair and felt a chill rise within him that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

He looked back at the list.

One Telosian.

He looked once more at the rune at the bottom of the report and knew immediately why it had looked familiar. It was highly stylized, and overlaid with decorative scrollwork that almost obscured the basic pattern, but the pattern was there, once one knew what to look for.

It was a symbol he was singularly unlikely to ever forget.

The Broken Circle.

And, as he stared, he noted something else. Concealed within the glyph were tiny initials - ac/eo. Archive copy - eyes only.

He was moving before he finished reading, and, as he ran, he prayed to whatever gods might choose to listen. 

_Please don't let it be what I think it is. Please, please, please. He won't survive it; I won't survive it. Please, please, please._

 

***************** ******************** *******************

 

Obi-Wan ejected the tiny disk from the data port, and sat motionless, his eyes hollow and unfocused.

The archives were silent - almost unnaturally so - and bathed in late morning radiance that streamed through tall, mullioned windows, catching motes of golden dust, hovering, suspended in place as well as time. Nothing moved.

Including the heart of Obi-Wan Kenobi, which just seemed to pause, between one beat and the next.

A soft rustle sounded from somewhere deep in the core of the huge chamber, which was designated as a cultural and historical archive, but was really just a huge warehouse for an enormous conglomeration of information, contained in every possible, imaginable form, from ancient scrolls, through tomes bound in everything from animal hides to cohesive energy bands, right up to molecular data chips. 

Obi-Wan had always loved it here; always loved the idea of centuries of wisdom and lore enclosed within these walls - adventure, romance, mystery, and history just waiting for his eager eyes to discover.

Until today.

The sound from deep within the stacks was probably the Curator, engaged in his self-appointed, endless, thankless task of cataloging and organizing data gathered from ten thousand worlds across the galaxy.

Master Hum-boll was a Bith, and rumor had it that he was almost as old as Master Yoda. Obi-Wan wasn't sure about his age, but he could certainly attest to the fact that - in the degree of his grumpiness - the head of the Jedi Council had absolutely nothing on the chief archivist.

The padawan, in his quest to gain access to the required data chip, had employed every ounce of persuasiveness, charm, schmooze, and - finally - abject begging at his disposal. The result had been the same, no matter what he tried.

The data was classified, far beyond the level of Obi-Wan's clearance. And that, from the Bith's perspective, was that.

In the end, the padawan had taken the only course of action open to him. He had waited until the curator was distracted by an incoming com call and swiped the chip from under his nose. Fortunately, from Obi-Wan's perspective, Master Hum-boll was severely near-sighted and never spied the tiny crystalline wafer floating across his field of vision.

Now, sitting in the silence, mind reeling, he almost wished he had been less persistent.

He needed no further direction to find the remaining pieces of the puzzle. In the back of his mind, he thought, perhaps, he had always known where the path would lead.

All that remained now was to retrieve it. The last nail in the coffin.

He shuddered at his own metaphor and wondered just how prophetic it might prove to be.

Not that anybody would actually die as a result of what he'd found. 

No.

What would die would not be a body.

Just a heart, and a future.

The empty darkness threatening to rise within him and overwhelm his consciousness was ample evidence of whose heart - and whose future.

He glanced at his chrono. If he hurried, he just had time to retrieve what he needed from its resting place, and to confront the person he needed to see.

If he hurried.

Still he sat as if rooted. He knew he had to move. Had to move now.

But, oh, it was hard. It was harder, he thought, than anything he'd ever done before, for all in the world he wanted right now, was to find a nice, safe, warm place to crawl into, a place in which he could seek the solace of sleep. A place in which - with a little luck - maybe this would all turn out to be a bad dream, and he would wake and find everything in his world intact; bright and gleaming and filled with hope, as it had been when this day had begun.

He shuddered again. Despite the golden quality of the light that poured over him like warm honey, he was cold. But the cold was inside - deep inside - where the knowledge that he didn't want to recognize was waiting for him. He would face it; he was, after all, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and he did not evade truth, no matter how painful. But he would procrastinate for just a little longer.

Surely that was understandable. After all, he had only just regained what had been lost for five long, desolate years.

Surely it was all right to hold on for just a few additional hours.

With a flick of his wrist, he returned the data disk to its slot, and forced himself to rise. It was time to go; he could delay no longer.

One level down. The files and records of deceased Jedi.

Since he knew exactly where to look, it was a matter of moments to retrieve the well-thumbed file.

He knew his time was short; knew he should just grab the file and go.

But something within him - something that insisted on hoping against hope - needed to see the confirmation with his own eyes. The data chip had provided all the pertinent information, but the hard copy seemed, somehow, more real.

He sat at a cluttered table in a remote corner of the big storeroom and watched dust billow around him as he lifted the lid of the file.

It had not been opened for a very long time. Five years. He knew it was five years, because he was the one who had placed it here, all those years ago. In those bleak, pain-filled days when he had been looking for ways to spare his Master as much hurt as possible. When he had hauled Tahl's records from her tiny office and stored them here, unread and untouched. Qui-Gon had not thought to ask about them, and Obi-Wan had not had the heart to mention them.

What he was seeking - what he knew he would find - was in a plasfilm envelope at the very top of the box.

He withdrew a handful of old-fashioned photographs and shuffled through them until he found the two he sought.

For a few seconds, he sat and allowed himself to appreciate the sheer beauty of the images - both images.

Then he closed his eyes and fought to center himself. It didn't come so easily this time.

He tucked the pertinent photos into his pocket and completed a cursory examination of the remainder of the file.

Tahl's lovely, precise handwriting made his task simple, and her superb research and organizational skills laid the entire, sordid story open before him. Every question he raised was answered, concisely.

Except one.

At first, he thought that he had just missed it in his haste. Then, when a second look failed to turn up the missing info, he thought it strange that she had so assiduously avoiding addressing that one particular topic. But, then, in a moment of epiphany, he understood.

She had omitted one pertinent fact, in order to protect the one she loved.

In the end, however, her omission had proven fruitless. He had read once, somewhere, that a picture was worth a thousand words. In this case, the axiom had certainly proven true. No words were required; the image said everything that needed to be said.

Now there would be no more protection.

For anyone.

Obi-Wan checked his chrono again and activated his comm link.

There was one more place for him to go, one more person for him to see.

One more delay, before facing the inevitable.

 

************** ****************** ********************

 

"You knew," said the padawan, not entirely successful in keeping an accusatory tone out of his voice.

"Knew some, I did. Suspected more."

Master Yoda drew close to the spot where Obi-Wan knelt and, to the boy's surprise, laid a gentle hand on the padawan's shoulder.

"Afraid to tell him, you are."

Obi-Wan stared down at the floor. Slowly, he withdrew the photographs from his pocket and dropped them at the Master's feet. "Did you know about these?"

Yoda's huge crystal eyes blinked slowly as he studied the images. "Seen them, I have not, but suspect they existed, I did."

Anger sparked within Obi-Wan suddenly and raged through him like flame, as he surged to his feet. 

"Calm yourself, Padawan."

Obi-Wan laughed, and the sound was bitter. "Calm myself? How do you suggest I do that, Master? This is going to . . . I can't even imagine what this is going to do to him, and I have to be the one to tell him. How do I do that?"

"As in all things, Child. One word at a time. And your fear, I sense, is not that you don't know what he'll do, but that you do."

Obi-Wan bit his lip, as his fury drained away, leaving him limp and exhausted. He deliberately kept his gaze turned toward the brilliant glitter of the city, blindingly bright as the sun rode high overhead. "You're right, of course. I do know how he'll react. I just don't know if I can . . ."

"Padawan . . ."

Again the cold laughter. "Temporarily, I think."

"Assume nothing."

"A Jedi," said Obi-Wan, in a voice that was infinitely gentle and infinitely weary, "never allows his judgment to be clouded by personal considerations, like wishful thinking."

Blue-green eyes shimmered softly. "The bond is still fragile. I don't think it . . ."

"Loves you, he does," Yoda interrupted, poking the padawan's chest firmly.

"I know," agreed the apprentice, "but not enough, I think. Not for this."

"Underestimate him, you do."

Obi-Wan sank once more to his knees and regarded the ancient Master, his lips curled in a wistful smile, his eyes shadowed with unimaginable loss. "Don't, Master. I don't need anyone to prop me up with false hope. For as long as I can remember, I've fought to overcome his memories, to compensate for the losses he suffered, both before and after I knew him. Maybe - by some miracle that I don't fully understand - I finally managed to win that battle. But, now, it's not memory any more, Master. It's flesh and blood, the flesh and blood of the two people he loves still, has always loved and always will love, more than his own life.

"Reborn, recreated, and waiting for him. I can't compete with that."

"Obi-Wan . . ."

"I have to go now," said the padawan, rising to his feet. "I have to tell him."

"Are you sure you understand . . ."

The boy nodded. "Tahl's report was quite explicit. The boy is different from the others."

Yoda nodded. "As I always suspected. She was the . . ."

"Yes." The apprentice shivered. "Perfect. Isn't it?"

"Obi-Wan!" The tiny Master's voice reverberated in the barren chamber, surprisingly loud from one so small.

"Yes, Master?" Yoda allowed himself a small sigh, as he observed that, to the bitter end, the boy would remain, always, the perfect padawan.

"Abandon you, he will not."

Obi-Wan bent and picked up the photographs from the floor and stared down at the images. When he lifted his face, there was no way to conceal the wash of tears in his eyes. "I would like to believe you, Master, but I know better. When he sees these, when he . . . I don't think he'll even remember my name."

Yoda could not remember a single time, in his eight hundred odd years, when he had wanted more desperately to be able to offer a comforting assurance. "Will you . . ."

The Padawan continued to stare at the images. "I am a Jedi," he said softly. "What else do I know? Where else could I go?"

"Here, is your place," said the Master. "Always here."

Obi-Wan wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand, and the ancient Master found the gesture curiously touching. "It's so strange," said the boy, "to feel as if I should be happy for him, and yet be unable to find it within me. For so long, all I wanted was for him to feel joy again. And now . . ." he gestured with the photographs, "here it is. The rekindling of his capacity for happiness, all wrapped up in one little package. And all I feel is dead inside."

"Much wounded have you been, Little One. Expect too much of yourself, you do."

Obi-Wan just nodded and turned away, squaring his shoulders as he reached the doorway.

"Obi-Wan," called Yoda.

The boy did not turn back, but he did stop and wait.

"Here, I am, if you need me."

But there was a grim pride written in every line of the apprentice's body; he had endured through five bleak years of bitter loneliness without ever allowing himself to lean on anyone else for comfort; he would endure now.

He was a Jedi. 

Cold comfort, though it sometimes was, it would have to be enough.

 

****************** ******************* ****************

 

Healer Mirilent Soljan regarded Master Qui-Gon Jinn with a jaundiced eye. He was sitting comfortably in a side chair, looking at her across the cluttered surface of her desk.

"Where is Obi?" she demanded curtly.

"I'm sure he's on his way," he replied pleasantly. "I did remind him of the appointment, this morning."

"Ummm, so he's going to take time out from one of the several dozen classes he teaches, and the several dozen more he takes, and the hours and days and weeks of research he does, and deign to drop in on me?"

Qui-Gon deliberately ignored her exaggerations, and inclined his head gracefully. "You did make it mandatory, did you not?"

"Humphh, that's the only way I ever get him in here. And, as for you, I just pulled your records, Master Jinn. You haven't had a complete physical exam in almost two years. Are you aware of that?"

"I'm sure that's incorrect," he replied serenely. "I've been in a number of times."

"No, you haven't."

"But. . ."

She leaned forward and impaled him with her icy gaze. "Don't try to bluff me, Qui-Gon. I'm not some green kid who's so impressed with your reputation and your noble bearing that I'm going to wet myself when you disagree with me. You haven't had a full exam in much too long. Now, we're either going to complete one - today - or you're going to be grounded, confined to the Temple, until we do. Are we clear on that?"

He sighed. "Very well, but I protest."

"Write a letter to your Senator," she retorted. "In the meantime, I want to talk to you about Obi-Wan."

Concern flared in the Master's eyes. "There's nothing wrong with him, is there?"

She leaned back and regarded him with narrowed eyes. "Don't you think it's a bit revealing that you don't already know the answer to that question?"

He forced himself to maintain eye contact, but it was not easy. "Yes. It is. And, before you say anything, I want to admit that whatever you have to say, I deserve. I know I've been remiss . . ."

"Remiss?" she barked. "You've been a Force-damned jack-ass. And you very nearly destroyed the boy in the process. For five bitter years, I've watched him come apart at the seams, inside, where no one else could see him bleed. In the vernacular of our younger colleagues, you are one lucky fucker! Lucky you didn't kill him. Lucky he's still capable of feeling and responding to you. Lucky to have had a padawan that was willing to endure anything just to be at your side. And do you want to know why I never told you this before? Why I didn't come after you with a whip and a chair? Why nobody ever grabbed you and shook the shit out of you to make you open your eyes and see the light?"

Qui-Gon, eyes suspiciously bright, merely nodded.

"Because he wouldn't allow it," she said softly. "He protected you. From me. From everybody. He stood over you like a mother catling and dared anyone to approach." She chuckled gently. "I think he even managed to intimidate the Council. They never quite had the nerve to overrule him. You are a lucky bastard, Qui-Gon Jinn. And you don't deserve him."

"I know," he murmured, almost overwhelmed by the feeling of love for his apprentice. 

She regarded him solemnly. "Maybe you do," she said finally, her misgivings still obvious in her weary face. "I hope you do." Her gaze sharpened. "Because he won't survive it again. You better think about that. _He-won't- survive-it-again._ If you turn your back on him once more - better you should just put a blaster to his head and shoot him."

"It won't happen again, Mira. I swear it."

She sighed. "I'd like to believe you. I really would. But he means too much, to too many of us, to simply take you at your word. So maybe I should make this a bit more memorable."

"It's pretty memorable," he said, with a smile.

"Well, let's forget memorable, and go right to unforgettable," she replied. "If you hurt him like this again, I'll kill you myself. Understood?"

"Perfectly."

"And you better make sure he eats properly. I do not want to see him lose another pound. Not one. Got it?"

"Absolutely."

"Regardless of what has happened in recent years, it is not natural for the padawan to take care of the Master. You're the parent, here. It's past time you started acting like it."

"Finished?" said a voice from the doorway. Obi-Wan sounded more tired than angry, but his eyes flashed dangerously.

"For the moment," said Mirilent, completely unruffled. "Take off your tunic."

The Padawan moved to the desk and flopped into a chair adjacent to Qui-Gon's. "Why, I'm just fine, Mira. Thanks for asking."

"You can act like a smart little snot all you want, but you're still going to take off that tunic so I can take a look at your ribs."

"You're late, Padawan," said Qui-Gon, "and you missed lunch."

"I was busy." 

Qui-Gon took a moment to study his apprentice's face, which remained firmly turned away from his Master. There was something . . . Qui-Gon shook his head slightly. Something was not as it should be, but he couldn't tell just what it was. Gently, he reached for the training bond and almost recoiled in shock when he found it completely silent. His Padawan was blocking him, and very effectively too.

One more way in which the boy had grown up.

But this was a mark of maturity, he decided abruptly, that he didn't like at all.

"Obi-Wan?"

"Yes, Master?"

"You seem pre-occupied."

"Yes, Master. I'll explain soon."

"Skipping lunch," interjected Mirilent, "is not something a growing boy needs to do. Especially one who has been losing weight."

"Mira . . ."

"Tunic! Now!"

The Padawan rose abruptly, obviously smoldering, and yanked off his sash, belt, and tunics.

The bruise on his shoulder and neck had faded from garish burgundy and heliotrope to mottled azure and saffron yellow. Mirilent focused her (considerable) Force senses on the condition of his ribs and shoulders, before directing a flow of healing energy to the discolored flesh. Under her hand, the lurid display faded until it was a vague shadow of itself.

"How's that?" she breathed, looking up into crystalline eyes that harbored entirely too many specters for her liking.

He sighed and flexed his arm. "You've still got the magic touch, Love. And if you'd just do what you do best . . ." he flexed again, "and stop preaching at me, I might not avoid you like the black plague."

"On the scale," she retorted, completely unimpressed with his observation.

He stifled a groan and obeyed.

"All right," she said, as she eyed the digital read-out. "You've regained a bit. But not enough. I want the entire six pounds back on you, within two weeks. Understood?"

"No problem," replied the padawan shrugging back into his tunics.

"You're humoring me, Little One," she said, in a dangerously soft voice. "Don't do that. I'm serious."

"So am I." But it was obvious that his mind was somewhere far beyond the limits of this room or this planet. "Can I go now?"

For a moment, she paused and looked as if she meant to argue, but something in his demeanor dissuaded her, and she only nodded.

"Padawan?" Qui-Gon said quickly. "What . ."

"When you're done here, Master," said Obi-Wan, "I'll be waiting in our quarters. I'll have the mission report for you."

The Master, once more, heard something amiss in the boy's tone but couldn't quite identify the underlying cause. "You could give it to me now," he said quietly. "Healer Soljan is insisting I take a complete physical examination, and I'll definitely need some reading material."

The padawan smiled thinly. "I haven't quite finished it yet. Besides, it probably wouldn't be suitable for that purpose."

"What do you . . ."

"If you don't mind," interrupted the apprentice, and both Qui-Gon and Mirilent were open-mouthed with astonishment, as it was considered the height of rudeness for a padawan to interrupt a Master, "I am a bit hungry. I think I'll go grab a bite."

And he was gone.

Healer Soljan and Master Jinn exchanged worried glances.

"I don't like the look of that," she said, biting her lip.

"No," he agreed, "neither do I."

"Did you feel it?" She tried, without much success, to read the emotion in his eyes; he had had entirely too much practice at hiding his feelings to allow her any kind of satisfaction.

But he sighed, and she heard the weight of sadness in the sound. "Yes. I felt it. He's frightened."

"Of you."

He started to argue, but then realized that there was little point. There was certainly more to it than that, but the bottom line was, that she was right. His apprentice was afraid of what his Master might do, in response to some new knowledge that the apprentice possessed but had yet to reveal.

He stood, and removed his Jedi robe. "If you please, Healer Soljan, can we get this examination started? I have things to attend to."

 

****************** ****************** ******************

 

He had lied, of course. He was not hungry. He even wondered if he would ever be hungry again.

Completing the mission report was a matter of minutes. He only had to rearrange the data, electing to present the basic facts first, without mentioning the identity of the persons involved until the final summation. He thought, if the names were revealed earlier, that his Master would be unable to comprehend anything else.

He was, of course, correct in this assumption.

When it was completed, he found himself falling into a meditative posture. He desperately needed to regain his emotional equilibrium, for he felt as if his feelings and thoughts were gnarled together into impenetrable knots. The only way to achieve any kind of serenity was to separate everything, strand by strand.

He had still only partially achieved his objective an hour later, when he felt a familiar presence at his side. So focused had he been that he never heard the opening of the door, but there was no mistaking the loving warmth that poured over him as his Master knelt beside him.

For a few minutes, he allowed himself to bask in that marvelous comfort, made even more intense by Qui-Gon's hand braced against his back.

When he reluctantly opened his eyes and glanced over his shoulder, he saw that a ray of afternoon light lay softly on his Master's face, illuminating the tranquility and patience of that noble visage.

Obi-Wan sighed. He didn't think that tranquility would survive for very long.

"You are troubled, my Padawan." 

There was little point in trying to deny it.

"Yes, Master."

"Are you ready to tell me what's wrong?"

Obi-Wan rose, and moved to the table where the datapad lay waiting. "You need to look over this first, Master."

"The mission report?"

"Yes."

"And this is what has frightened you so?"

"I am not frightened, Master. Just concerned."

"Concerned about what?"

"What the future holds."

Qui-Gon, for the moment, seemed unwilling to examine the data Obi-Wan had prepared. "Tell me what it is you fear, my Padawan."

Obi-Wan lowered his gaze. "Master, I . . ."

"Tell me." The slightest nuance of Jedi compulsion intensified the Master's innate power.

"I don't want to be alone any more," admitted the apprentice, so softly it was barely a whisper.

"Obi-Wan, you won't . . ."

"Just read it." The words were clipped, flat, emotionless. "Don't say anything more until you read it."

There was a pause as Qui-Gon considered rebuking the boy, both for his attitude and his impatience. But, in the end, beneath the brusque exterior, the dread that gripped the boy was clear to see.

Qui-Gon picked up the datapad, and settled himself on the couch.

"And, Master," said the apprentice softly, "arrangements have already been made for our transport. It is ready, when you say the word."

Obi-Wan sank back into his meditation, his slender frame obscured by the rough robe he had donned earlier. It was thick and well-made and had protected him from the cold in the most extreme environments, but it did nothing now, to thaw the frozen heart within him. He glanced at his Master from beneath thick, curling lashes, and felt as if time were running through his hands, like water; the final moments of his bond draining away into nothingness.

He closed his eyes and waited.

 

***************** ****************** ******************

 

File Number: JKT 11-S32261 - ARCH. SECT. 503

 

Preliminary findings:

On Galactic date 77-195336, initial reports were presented to the Jedi Council documenting the existence of a covert laboratory being operated by a team of bio-geneticists, engaged in the study of refining and combining methods of cloning and gene-splicing, in the pursuit of developing a 'superior' human. Early indications were that funding for this pursuit was being provided by a conglomerate of multi-national, multi-cultural corporations with virtually unlimited funds, and little or no concern for ethical considerations. Unlike previously employed cloning procedures, the methods under investigation in this facility involved the development and biological implantation of an embryo, which would then proceed through all the stages of fetal development, emerging finally as a normal, full-term infant. This method, it was believed by the scientists involved, would allow full development of the clone's mental and emotional capabilities, resulting in a completely functional duplicate of the original subject, but with genetic enhancements provided in vitro, allowing the correction of any genetic defects or anomalies, or the enhancement or insertion of desirable traits.

At this time, since the products generated by these experiments were children of various ages, it was decided by the Jedi Council that a team of three Jedi knights should be dispatched to investigate the claims, rather than the customary Master/Padawan team. Once the investigation was concluded, they would make recommendations for resolution of the problem, should the claims prove to be correct. 

The precise location of the laboratory was, at that time, unknown; therefore, the team's first task was to discover the site of the clandestine facility.

In the field, the Jedi team initiated a painstaking, in-depth investigation, to discover all pertinent data concerning the lab, the experiments under way there, and the identity of both the individuals involved and the corporate entities providing the funding. At the same time, a second Jedi team skilled in tracking and evaluating financial dealings sought to trace supply lines, investors, shipping records, and the endless minutia of business.

The discovery of the location of the lab occurred as a result of a chance encounter between one of the Jedi and a famed geneticist, renowned for unorthodox views. Acting on little more than a 'feeling', the knight had followed the scientist to a secluded site, from which he was transported to the lab proper. Unfortunately, in attempting to contact other members of the team, the knight was captured, and, in a subsequent attempted rescue, the two remaining team members were also apprehended.

At this time, uncertain as to whether or not the location of the lab had been compromised, the entire establishment was packed up and moved, under cover of darkness, to a deserted underground facility on a nearby moon, and all trace of the operation was eradicated.

For many months, despite constant searches by the Jedi, no more was heard of the secret laboratory or the knights who had vanished there.

Finally, just over two years after the initial disappearance, one of the knights - the only female in the group - was able to break free of her captors, and reach sanctuary. Although she contacted the Temple immediately to ask for a strike team to move in and overrun the compound, by the time the team arrived, the compound was deserted.

It would be an additional seven months before efforts to trace the lab to its new location would prove successful.

During the final assault on the compound, the actions of the Jedi and their allies were limited by their concern for the welfare of the children. Ultimately, after bitter resistance by mercenary forces, the laboratory was taken by the Jedi, and the children were liberated. But during the final confrontation, several of the key scientists involved in the project escaped via underground passageways.

Among them was Doctor N'vell Aji, later alleged to be the chief biochemist of the project, and Doctor Maleonaka Sirvik, chief administrator and geneticist. 

Subsequent inspections of records recovered on site implicated several enormous corporate entities, and other individuals who had invested huge sums of capital, in the belief that a perfected cloning method would prove to be a route to true immortality.

Attempts to locate these individuals proved fruitless. Enormous wealth had provided anonymity.

Twenty-two children were recovered at the site, mostly humanoid. (See appendix I for listing.) While in remarkably good health, many were socially deficient, apparently having received little in the way of behavioral training. Subsequent examinations and extensive testing revealed that the children were extremely gifted, extraordinarily intelligent, and blessed with midi-chlorian counts well above average. With only one exception, however, none demonstrated any Force-related skills, at that time.

The lone exception, a boy of between two and three standard years of age, possessed astonishing Force potential, but had little control of his abilities.

While the investigation continued, a decision was reached to transport the children to a remote location on the planet, Mejanis, under the watchful eye of Jedi Masters, there to attempt to correct the lingering difficulties caused by their lack of social conditioning and to aid them in developing their Jedi skills.

A final report from the lone knight to survive the ordeal of captivity revealed that the two other members of her team were executed by the security forces at the clandestine lab, after cells were harvested from them for cloning purposes. One clone of each of the knights was among the surviving children. The survivor was also used as a cloning subject, and her clone also survived. 

It is also worth noting here that, in the process of evaluating the condition of the children, it was discovered that, although the cloning method used in this instance was vastly superior to methods used previously, there was still a degree of genetic degradation in the cellular structure of the cloned children. The divergence from the norm was extremely miniscule, but definitely detectable.

Interestingly, in two subjects, this degradation was not discovered. But it was later learned that the reason for this was clear, in one case; the child was not a clone, but rather a product of in vitro fertilization, involving donated sperm cells and a harvested egg, and in vitro genetic manipulation. The resulting embryo was implanted in a human host, and carried to term to be born in the customary human manner.

The surviving knight was forced to serve as the host for this child.

Subsequent tests revealed that over ninety percent of the DNA in this child's cellular structure duplicated the DNA of the donor father. Thus, though not technically a clone, the child was almost a complete duplicate of the father.

See disposition report for details of Mejanis facility and staff, and subsequent decisions.

 

STAFF NOTES:

Posthumous notations of valor entered into the records of Jedi Knight Parshal Ferrin and Jedi Knight Alvir Corios. Special commendation to Jedi Knight Tahl of Nooria.

 

FINAL DISPOSITION:

Identification of the genetic material used to produce the cloned children was accomplished over the next several years, and every effort was made to contact the individuals from whom the material had been taken. Without exception, the persons so contacted were appalled by the events that had taken place and wished no contact with the resulting children.

All were eventually identified, and all contacted, save two.

The sperm donor who was the father of the non-clone child was never officially identified. All that is known is that he was Telosian, probably a resident of the planet of Telos, on which the original lab was located.

The second donor, it was later learned, died during her incarceration at the cloning facility.

No further data was ever uncovered.

 

************* *********************** *****************

 

The last note on the report was a signature: a bold, stylized "T", followed by an artistic flourish and a second series of loops and squiggles. It was unmistakable for anyone who had ever seen it before. Tahl of Nooria.

Qui-Gon, eyes wide and empty, surged to his feet, and turned toward his padawan, but Obi-Wan knew what he was seeing lay far beyond the confines of this tiny room.

A name kept reverberating in the Master's mind - a name he knew, a name he would never forget. N'vell Aji. Of Telos. Sister of a one-time Jedi padawan.

Obi-Wan stepped forward, determined to see it through to the end, no matter what. He reached out, and dropped the two rumpled photographs into his Master's hand.

Qui-Gon was beyond registering anything, hearing anything, understanding anything, as he looked down at the two images: the girl, with a cap of dark hair, skin the color of warm honey, and eyes striped green and gold; the boy, with a shock of black curls, eyes of brilliant blue, and a smile that was so beautiful, it was almost painful to behold.

Obi-Wan watched his Master's face, and saw it happen, saw the realization strike. Saw the end of his own dreams, and the beginning of someone else's.

Saw the tears well and spill, as the mighty Jedi went to his knees. "Tahl," came the whisper. "My beloved. And Xanatos. My Xanatos."

The padawan waited to hear no more. He picked up the bags he had packed prior to his Master's return, and headed for the door.

"Docking bay 5," he called over his shoulder. "They're waiting."

The padawan was moving quickly, but not quickly enough. 

The Master Jedi surged to his feet and raced into the corridor, his shoulder accidentally brushing against his apprentice as he passed him, sending the boy careening into the door frame.

Qui-Gon did not notice.

Obi-Wan retrieved his Master's bag from where he had dropped it, and resolutely turned his face toward the end of the corridor, where Qui-Gon was disappearing around the corner.

The padawan forced himself to hurry. He must not be late. It was the last task he would ever be called upon to perform for his Master.

He would do it right, if it killed him.

But it wouldn't, after all.

He would live.

He just didn't know how - or why.

 

******************* ********************* **************** 

tbc


	7. The Wind in Winter

Chapter 7: The Wind in Winter

 

_Perhaps the wind_  
_Wails so in winter for the summer's dead,_  
_And all sad sounds are nature's funeral cries_  
_For what has been and is not._

\- - Goerge Eliot -- _Spanish Gypsy_. Book I

 

"Hand me that small spanner," said the disembodied voice from beneath the hyperdrive initiator console.

A small, grimy hand snaked out from beneath an adjacent control station, and groped through an assortment of tools jumbled in a much-abused tool box. The desired spanner was finally located and pushed toward a dark recess where another hand - larger but equally grimy - waited with scarcely concealed impatience.

"Can you get to it?" asked the owner of the smaller hand, voice reflecting the strain of trying to dislodge a recalcitrant bolt that was absolutely determined to deny access to the nether regions of the control unit.

"I could," came the extremely annoyed reply, "if I had hands the size of a Jawa's. I'd love to get my too large fingers around the throat of the genius that designed this piece of . . ."

"Virgin ears on your six," came the soft warning.

"Shit!" The voice was overflowing with defiance, and accompanied by a violent clang, symbolic of something organic making extremely substantial contact with something not.

In the deep shadow beneath the console, a head appeared, working its way out into the light with extreme caution. A careful inspection of the face now appearing would have revealed a rapidly swelling lump on the side of the forehead, a twin of one visible just above the left ear, the result of an earlier attempt to exit the cramped quarters, without exercising suitable restraint. The head, ordinarily, would have been crowned with soft spikes of rust-colored hair, but it was now pretty much obscured by a thick layer of grime and dust and sweat.

"Padawan," said a stern voice, originating somewhere above the nether regions of the engine core that the Jedi apprentice was attempting to vacate.

"Yes, Master?"

"Have we an ETA yet?"

The Padawan fought off an urge to bang his head on the dingy deck in a display of frustration.

"Not yet, Master. But soon."

"Padawan . . ."

"Master." There was just the tiniest hint of exasperation in the response. "We're working as hard and as fast as we can. We'll be underway as soon as possible."

"You're sure? We could contact the Temple and ask for another ship."

Obi-Wan shook his head. "By the time they could get here, we'll be long gone." A stillness rose in blue-green eyes as he turned to regard his Master's countenance. "Trust me."

"You don't understand . . ." 

"Yes," interrupted the Padawan, not even noticing that this was becoming a habit, "I do. I know you need to get there quickly. And you will. I promise."

Qui-Gon gazed through a lateral port, seeing - and not seeing - the magnificent swirl of a binary star system that was busily devouring itself. Absently, he reached down and laid a hand, very briefly, on his apprentice's shoulder. "You're a good boy, Padawan," he murmured vaguely. "I know you'll do your best."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes tight against the sting of tears. He had never quite understood the meaning of the phrase, 'damning with faint praise'. He understood it quite well now.

What the Master did not say - but might as well have - was that Obi-Wan's best, however good it might be, would not be good enough. He wanted to reach Mejanis _now_ \- or sooner. 

Obi-Wan's eyes met those of his fellow worker, now struggling to be free of the control panel, and he allowed himself a small, rueful smile. For just the barest trace of a second, a tiny gleam of mischief flared in blue-green eyes.

"We'll be ready," he said softly, "as soon as we finish blowing the pirate fleet out there to sub-atomic particles."

"Of course," muttered Qui-Gon. "Whatever you feel is necessary. Just . . ."

"Master, we are hurrying."

"Yes," whispered the Master, then turned to go back to the stateroom he had occupied for the past two days. He had emerged only to ask for updated arrival estimates, and to inquire into the cause of the delay when the mechanical problem had ejected them, somewhat roughly, from hyperspace. Other than that, he had remained closeted in that tiny cabin, taking food and drink from his Padawan's hand whenever the youth presented it, but speaking hardly at all.

The apprentice watched as his Master beat a hasty retreat, and then turned to meet the pair of frankly appraising eyes that regarded him so solemnly.

"What?" he snapped finally, unable to endure that calm scrutiny any longer.

"He's lost it."

"He's . . . pre-occupied."

The bark of laughter was sharp. "Pre-occupied! He's catatonic, Obi. And if you think he's going to be able to function at all on this mission, or use his intellectual capacity to evaluate anything more complex than a cheese sandwich, better think again."

"You don't understand," retorted the padawan, returning to his inspection of the recalcitrant hyperdrive assembly.

"Yeah, well, you got that right, anyway. I don't understand. And if understanding would make me approve of the way he's treating you, I don't want to understand."

"Captain K'terra," he said, growing more annoyed by the minute, "are we going to talk, or fix this thing?"

The pilot and captain of the ambassadorial courier ship hauled herself out from beneath her respective console and wiped her hands on pants that were already beyond hope of ever being clean again; that were, in fact, almost as soiled as the ones her counterpart was wearing.

"Look, Junior," she almost growled, glancing at the sculpted muscles of his bare chest, smeared now with equal parts sweat, grease, and general grunge. "You get to yield to the discomfort of the situation and go shirtless. If I try that, I'll get nailed for corrupting a minor. So I'm going to take five minutes to cool off. OK?"

A tiny gleam flared in sea-change eyes. "I won't tell, if you won't."

She laughed, and the sound seemed to well up from the bottom of her feet and erupt through her throat. "I do love cheeky little bastards," she chortled, "and the gods know you're as tempting a little morsel as I've seen in a long, long time, but I'm old enough to be your mother, not to mention way too much woman for you to handle, Junior."

She finally succeeded in freeing herself completely from her mechanical restraints, and rose, wiping ashy hair, liberally streaked with gray, from her face. "On the other hand," she observed, grinning at the apprentice, "if you want to try that suggestion on Viszt, I think you'll find him more than amenable. He thinks you're - let me see if I remember the phrase - 'the hottest little ass within a hundred parsecs'. So if you're feeling really frisky, he'd be delighted to lend a hand - or any other body part you might fancy."

He grinned. "Thanks, but no, thanks. Tell me something. Do you talk to all the Jedi you haul around like this?"

She winked. "Well, of course not. They're not the one with the hot little ass, now, are they?"

"So how do you know . . ."

"That you won't get all bent out of shape and file a complaint?"

He nodded, still grinning.

She leaned over and traced his jawline with a grimy finger. "Because we all know who you are, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and what you are. You don't have a single, malicious bone in your body, and nobody else in the entire knighthood has a bigger heart. Or a larger capacity to laugh at himself, and the jokes life plays on us all. And we've all threatened - from time to time - to drag your Master out behind the barn and kick the shit out of him, just for good measure."

"Please, don't say things like that. I can't . . ."

"Stand the truth?"

"No, it's not . . ."

She tapped her forefinger on his chin and said, very gently, "You might fool yourself, Kiddo, but you're not fooling anybody else. I never saw anybody as good at hiding his hurt under a smile, but hiding it don't mean it's not still there."

Obi-Wan merely ignored her words and flashed her that trademark, heartbreaker smile. "Go cool off."

With a deliberate leer at his sweat-soaked body, she flicked a towel at his delectable little bottom and made her exit, muttering something about the sweetness - and provocation - of forbidden fruit.

Obi-Wan suppressed a sigh, and knelt to continue his work. He deliberately did not think about what K'terra had said - or what Qui-Gon had said - or what his Master was doing and thinking at this very moment - or what awaited them on Mejanis. In fact, he deliberately did not think.

 

*************** ******************** ***************

 

Qui-Gon Jinn had spent much of the two-day journey on his knees, attempting to release his anxiety and emotion into the Force. But it had proved to be almost impossible, much to his surprise. Even at the darkest hours of his life, he had always been able to achieve some measure of equilibrium through meditation.

Not now.

Now, every time he got close to finding his emotional center, something seemed to reach out and wrest him bodily from his concentration.

The emotional upheaval happening within him was so foreign to him as to be without precedent.

Dealing with the impossible would do that to you.

The impossible.

He had never believed in chance - much less second chance. Tahl was dead; Xanatos was dead. Neither fact could be disputed.

They were dead, and any opportunity he had ever had to build a life with either or both was gone. Dead. Just as dead as they were.

And yet, Fate seemed to mock his certainties, for now, from a certain point of view, both lived. Not from their own perspectives, of course. But from his.

He sat now, head bent, forehead propped in a weary hand, eyes caressing the two photographs laid out before him.

Xanatos. The picture showed a child of about eight years, a child of astonishing grace and beauty, eyes ablaze with curiosity and exuberance.

Qui-Gon remembered his first glimpse of the boy who would become his second Padawan, in excruciating detail. Every tiny nuance of who that boy had been was engraved indelibly on his consciousness - timeless, unforgettable.

This child was identical - right down to the tiny crescent-shaped birth mark that just touched the top of his collar bone.

He had lost Xanatos twice. First to the Dark Side, and then, to death, and he had spent many long, lonely years convincing himself that the loss had been unavoidable - that he had been blameless in the debacle.

Most of the time, he even believed it.

Except for those moments, usually late at night, when that one niggling, little shadow of doubt would raise its ugly head and torment him with an endless series of "What ifs".

He looked down into those huge, laughing eyes (if he listened, he knew he could actually hear that laughter) and knew. This time he could do it right. This time he would not fail.

Xanatos was to have been his ultimate achievement, his finest work of art - the culmination of his career as a Jedi. His legacy. And he still could be. He still could . . .

Abruptly, another image intervened between his weary eyes and the photograph.

Sea-change eyes, dark with unacknowledged pain; soft spikes of ginger hair; lovely, sculpted lips that so effortlessly formed that smile, that smile that could light up a heart - or a world.

Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan, who had pledged his life to his Master. Obi-Wan, who, despite the confusion and uncertainties of adolescence and a conflicted heart, had never betrayed him; who, even now, agonized as he must surely be, was doing everything that was asked of him - and more - to enable his Master to achieve whatever it was that he decided he wanted to achieve. Obi-Wan, the perfect Padawan, who had never once stopped to count the cost to himself of any sacrifice his Master demanded. Obi-Wan, to whom was owed --- the debt was very nearly incalculable.

The Master shook his head, and inhaled sharply. He should stand up, right now, and run, not walk, from this room, and find his precious apprentice and clasp the boy close to his heart; he should tell him now, before fickle fate decreed that the opportunity was past, that his goodness and innocence had rescued a lonely heart from the wreckage of oblivion, had reopened the gates of life and contentment, had earned the undying fealty of a Master suitably humbled by such a totality of unselfishness. He should go now. He should . . .

He shook his head, and his vision cleared. And the face before him was Xanatos, the child who should have been.

Midnight eyes shifted to the second photograph, and he was struck afresh with wonder.

Tahl, exactly as she had looked when the two of them had approached puberty together, in their journey from Creche to knighthood; constant companions, joined in memory and common experience long before being joined by feelings grown in mature hearts.

The girl's smile was infinitely gentle, warm, winsome, and - maybe - just slightly sardonic, hinting of the humor and wisdom that would grow more pronounced with the passing of years, and generating a matchless warmth in those incredible two-toned eyes.

Intellectually, he knew this was not Tahl; nor was she Tahl's daughter. Rather she was a genetic copy.

An exact copy.

And who could know or say that a daughter - the product, perhaps, of a union between two Jedi Masters - would have looked any different?

The Master rose abruptly, and moved to the viewport, but the spangled majesty of the heavens was lost on eyes turned inward and backward.

Life, it seemed, had been one long series of crossroads; choices made, some good, some not so good. Some disastrous.

He stood for a while, remembering. And after a while, he was successful in banishing the bad memories and focusing only on the good.

It was suddenly as if his bruised heart was made whole; his pain existed no more.

Xanatos. Tahl. The multi-source radiance to banish his shadows.

And Obi-Wan. Child of light and purity and the source of the only remaining shadow: the shadow of guilt.

He was not a child any more; he no longer needed an adult to serve as role model and mentor. Obi-Wan would be ready soon for knighthood. Given a heart as pure and a soul as devoted as his, the transition should not prove difficult.

Yes, that was it. He was a boy no longer, but standing on the brink of manhood. And if he still had much to learn about the Living Force, there were always alternative sources from whom he could glean knowledge.

It was no longer necessary for Qui-Gon Jinn to be his only Master.

There were other Masters.

Just as there were other padawans. At least, there was one. A padawan with a shock of dark curls, and lips that sometimes tended to curl in a very slight sneer, hinting of just a trace of arrogance. A padawan who would grow into a magnificent young man, with laughing eyes, endlessly beloved of his Master.

When a gentle knock at the door roused him from his maunderings, he was somehow surprised to find his face dripping with tears.

He composed himself quickly as he palmed the door open.

Obi-Wan's eyes dropped immediately, but not so quickly, Qui-Gon knew, that the Padawan had not noticed the telltale wetness of his Master's face.

"The hyperdrive is restored, Master," said the apprentice, eyes still averted. "But we had to do a little creative rigging, so the ride may be a bit rough. You might want to strap yourself in."

He turned to go but paused as his Master's hand fell on his arm, an arm still dripping with sweat and smeared with engine grease.

"You've been working very hard, Padawan," said Qui-Gon, his voice not quite steady.

"Yes, Master. If you'll excuse me, I'll try to make myself presentable. We should be at Mejanis in less than eight hours."

Again, he moved to go, and again, that hand restrained him. "Obi-Wan."

The apprentice, deliberately keeping his face turned away from his Master, closed his eyes and fought for composure. The desperation he heard in Qui-Gon's voice was almost more than he could bear. "Master," he said softly, barely audible. "It's all right. I know you . . . It will all be all right."

"How are you?" It seemed, finally, to be the only thing the Master could think of to say.

"I'm . . . nominal, Master." There was the faintest trace of that unmistakable Kenobi humor in the reply, but it was so faint as to be virtually non-existant.

"Padawan, I'm . . ."

"Don't." There was no humor in the voice now. Only firm resolve. "Just don't."

With a trembling hand, Qui-Gon reached out and grasped the padawan braid, and forced his apprentice to turn toward him. Little was visible of the face that so enchanted so many doting females; the boy had been working in a virtual grease pit and looked it. But nothing could obscure the technicolor wonder of those eyes, eyes suspiciously bright now, but determined to betray nothing of the desolation within.

"I do love you, Obi-Wan," whispered the Master, fingering the silky braid.

Obi-Wan smiled, but it was bittersweet as he looked up at the man who had been and would remain the center of his universe. "I know, Master, but not quite enough, I think."

"That's not. . ."

But Obi-Wan was not going to allow any evasion of truth. "Yes. It is. You no longer need me, Master. To fill your life. It will be quite full, from now on. An awkward, half-trained apprentice will be just a nuisance."

"You are neither awkward, nor half-trained. You will be a powerful Jedi."

The Padawan just shook his head, in genuine wonder. "You really believe that, don't you? You've convinced yourself that everything will work out just as you want it to."

"Why wouldn't . . ."

Obi-Wan backed away from his Master, and refused to meet his eyes as he moved into the corridor. But, finally, it was all too much for him, perhaps. Finally, for just one moment, he lost the will to hold himself in check and let his shielding crack, just slightly.

He paused in the shadowy hallway, and spoke, without turning to see his Master's reaction. "I won't become a Jedi, Master. And if you were thinking clearly, you'd know that. At my age and with my training, to be rejected by my Master is tantamount to dismissal from the Order. There will be no recourse."

"I won't allow that." But the Master's tone was weary and uncertain.

Obi-Wan laughed softly. "You won't be able to stop it. Don't you get it, Master? Renegade or not, there are some rules you simply can't break, with impunity. No matter how much you want to change things, you can't."

"Then I will . . ."

The Padawan spun quickly to confront his Master, and there was a universe of fire and pain in his eyes. "You'll what? Give up Xanatos? Again?"

The fire flared and was gone. "I don't think so, Master. It'll be a simple choice, and we both know what your final decision will be."

For just a moment, Obi-Wan thought he might actually have reached his Master; thought he saw a ghost of the man to whom he had devoted his life; thought he saw the banked warmth of his Master's love and pride.

And for just that moment, the Master wavered, and saw - truly saw - the wonder that stood before him, the miracle of this child who loved so deeply that he would willingly sacrifice himself on the altar of his devotion to his Master. For just that moment, Qui-Gon Jinn experienced a shame so deep it seemed to permeate his very soul.

Until another image superceded the one before him. An image out of memory, which whispered that it could be reborn - reincarnated - rejuvenated. But not without cost.

The moment was brief. Lasting only until those midnight blue eyes, once so filled with warmth and approval, were suddenly filmed with frost. "Jealousy," said the Master, his tone suddenly hard, "is a most unbecoming emotion, Apprentice. Hardly worthy of even a novice padawan. Much less one poised for knighthood."

For the space of a heartbeat, a great silence swelled between them and became, at once, a great distance. The towering Jedi Master deliberately did not see the icy hand of despair that gripped his padawan's heart; did not see the bolt of sheer agony that ripped through the boy's defenses, and struck a killing blow to his tender spirit. The Master had already closed the door, when the youth slipped to his knees there in that barren corridor and felt the last vestige of his hopes and dreams drain away into darkness.

He had thought himself resigned to this; had thought he had relinquished all hope, and was truly horrified to realize now, that there was something within the human heart that was tenacious beyond reason, something that insisted on clinging to hope, long past the point of futility. He plunged now into an abyss of complete desolation.

And felt, finally, for what would surely be the last time, the closing down of the Master/Padawan bond. It was not yet severed, but it would not be reopened. The abrupt silence was deafening.

The metal of the deck was icy against his huddled body as he seemed to collapse into nothingness, but he found that he had neither the interest nor the energy to pull himself to his feet. Instead, he just curled tighter around himself, oblivious to the chill that bled through him, oblivious to everything but the emptiness that yawned around him.

It was Captain K'terra who found him there, an hour later, and manhandled him back to his cabin. It was K'terra who ignored his feeble protests that he needed no help; who stripped his stained clothing from his shivering body and, with the help of her solemn first mate, forced him into a steaming tub; who soaped him and rinsed him and shampooed his hair and toweled him dry, all the while murmuring soothing, meaningless endearments, meant only to remind him that he was not alone. It was K'terra who, at last, redressed him and forced him into a nest of blankets she had piled onto his berth, and who sat with him until he drifted into an exhausted sleep. And she knew that it was a measure of his misery that he had registered virtually none of it; indeed, would probably never remember the touch of her hands on his icy young body.

Finally, it was K'terra who went hunting for a Jedi Master, deciding, at the last minute, that she dared not arm herself with a blaster, for fear that she would be tempted beyond her power to resist to blow the black-hearted bastard into oblivion first - and talk later.

 

*********************** ************* **********************

 

"I'm taking him back to Coruscant," she snarled, "and you, Sir, can get back as best you can. I frankly don't give a damn."

"You will maintain a civil attitude, Captain," said Master Qui-Gon Jinn, not altogether successful in projecting his customary air of serenity.

"A civil attitude?" she barked. "You dare to speak to me about a civil attitude? There's something here that you don't seem to understand. This is my ship. Understand that? Mine. And nobody hitches a ride, unless I say so."

"I need Obi-Wan ready to disembark when we arrive," said the Master. "See to it."

Captain K'terra moved forward until she was directly in his face, or, at least, she would have been, had she been two feet taller. "Let me see if I can make this clear enough for even you to understand," she said firmly. "Fuck you, Master! I'm taking him back to Coruscant."

"Obi-Wan will do as I say."

The patent disgust in her eyes was difficult to face, even for a Jedi Master. "He probably would," she spat, "but it's going to be a little tough, under the circumstances."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning when I found him, he was half frozen, and in the grip of chills and fever. So I dosed him with some Re-lium 14. He'll be out for hours."

The Master fumed. "You had no right . . ."

She leaned forward. "Wrong. My ship. Remember? Which gives me every right. And I might point out that I'm not the one that left him there on that uninsulated deck."

"I didn't know he was . . ."

"Didn't you?" she challenged and had the satisfaction of seeing him evade the question.

Master Jinn moved to the viewport and stared out at the sphere of Mejanis, rapidly swelling in the distance. "I need him with me," he murmured, more to himself than to her.

"Yeah, well, maybe you should have thought of that earlier."

"If you remained here, he could . . ."

Again, she leaned forward. "No way. He's going back to Coruscant with me."

Finally, the Master straightened. Whatever else he might or might not be, Qui-Gon Jinn was the kind of man who never wasted time beating a dead pegei. "Very well, Captain. But you should know that I intend to file a full report on this incident."

She nodded. "You do that, Master Jinn, and so will I."

The Master admitted to himself that he was slightly surprised; few were the individuals capable of standing up to the wrath of a Jedi Master, subdued though it might be. This one seemed completely unperturbed.

"May I ask that you make arrangements for a ship to call for me in a week's time? And please see to it that it is large enough to accommodate a larger group of passengers. At least twenty, I should think. Possibly more."

She made no attempt to disguise the contempt in her eyes. "So I was right. I told the boy that you had already reached a decision about what you would do here. He didn't believe me. Or maybe he just didn't want to. So tell me, mighty Jedi. How does it feel? To plunge the assassin's knife into the back of your own apprentice, I mean. How proud you must be!"

"You will be silent!" he replied sharply. "I owe you no explanation."

She rose and moved to the doorway, but paused before making her exit. "You're absolutely right," she said softly. "You don't owe me a thing. But that's not the question, is it? The question is, what debt did you renege on today, Master Jinn? How did you repay all those years when he took care of you?"

"You can't know. . ."

"Wrong again," she retorted. "We all know. The whole Temple knows, has always known. You should remember that. You should understand that; what you've done today isn't something that can be casually concealed, or swept under a rug. So let me leave you with this thought: what you did today - to that child - is that what it means to be a Jedi? Because, if it is, then I sure have had it wrong for all these years."

She made her exit finally, without looking back. Thus, she didn't see the tears welling in the Master's eyes. For a fraction of a second, he considered reaching for that bond, the one he had shut down so completely earlier. For Obi-Wan had been wrong about one thing when he had spoken of the choices Qui-Gon must make; he had said that his Master no longer needed him. That, it appeared, was not completely true.

For seven years, even in moments of deepest despair, Obi-Wan had been a presence in his mind; a warm, lovely presence, filled with light and beauty and hope and grace. 

Now there was only silence and darkness.

He slipped to his knees. By the Force, what had he done?

 

**************** **************** *******************

 

Captain K'terra stared through the viewscreen at the azure and jade sphere hanging in space and found it quite lovely, as primitive planets went. There were no indications of civilization visible from this distance, and it probably wouldn't be much different closer in. Mejanis was one of those relative rarities in this galaxy, a lush, environmentally stable world that had not yet attracted the attention of developers or exploiters. A pristine planet. Its inhabitants undoubtedly hoped to keep it that way.

K'terra admired their dedication, while lamenting their naivete. 

They didn't have a prayer.

But, for the moment, they had preserved their paradise.

Which she couldn't wait to see disappearing into the darkness behind her.

For she had not been entirely honest with the Qui-Gon Jinn in her assertion that the Padawan would remain sedated until after their departure. In truth, she was not sure how long the boy would sleep. She just hoped it would be long enough. For she abhorred the idea of leaving the apprentice in the clutches of that cold-hearted, arrogant Jedi bastard.

"Get on the horn, Viszt," she said to her co-pilot, an Iegan with the most beautiful emerald eyes she had ever seen - and what a complete waste that he was only interested in other males of equal physical splendor (like the one sleeping now in Cabin B). "Tell them we're coming in, and tell them we won't be hanging around for long."

"Your wish," he replied, eyes twinkling, "is my command, my lady."

She laughed softly. "You're just hoping he needs a little TLC, with some male bonding thrown in for good measure."

"One can always hope. He is a vision."

She smiled. "That he is, my friend, but I don't think he swings that way."

The emerald eyes disappeared beneath lowered lashes. "I know. And now, having had a glimpse of him at his bare best, I can only declaim - what a waste!"

Once more, she chuckled. "There are those, m'dear, who say the same about you."

A rustling sound from the hatch entry alerted them to an unseen presence.

"Captain K'terra," said that sweetly cultured voice, the one that she had so desperately hoped not to hear until after their departure from Mejanis.

She spun quickly to face him. "What are you doing up?" she demanded. "You should still be asleep."

He gestured toward the planet beneath them. "We seem to have arrived."

"So it would seem," she answered, then drew a deep breath. "But you're not debarking."

"Excuse me?"

"I said, you're not staying."

Blue-green eyes that were ordinarily as warm as sun on sand now glittered with frost. "Perhaps you better explain that."

"No need for explanations," said a deep baritone, from behind the padawan. "The Captain is in error."

Obi-Wan turned to regard his Master, his expression carefully neutral. "Of course," was all he said.

"Now wait a minute," said K'terra, rising.

"You have your instructions, Captain," said Qui-Gon. 

K'terra tossed a look of pure malice at the Master, before erupting from the pilot's station, lacing her fingers firmly into Obi-Wan's braid, and virtually dragging him into an adjacent briefing room. Though the Jedi Master was only a step behind, she succeeded in engaging the hatch before he could clear the opening, effectively locking herself and the padawan in - and the Master out.

For a second, she wondered if he would engage in the all-to-human, but not very dignified practice of beating on the door. 

He didn't, but the padawan looked as if he might.

"Sit," she said firmly, pushing him toward a stool.

"What are you doing?" he asked, obviously wondering if she had suddenly gone psychotic.

"Showing you your options," she answered firmly.

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Jedi padawans don't have options."

She sat at the head of the briefing table and eyed him solemnly, as she retrieved a long, slender tabacc stick from an ornate case, and lit it. Only when she had inhaled a deep draught of the bitter smoke and let it trickle slowly from her mouth did she respond.

"Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Still a Jedi padawan?"

She steeled herself not to back off as she saw the terrible hurt rise in his eyes.

"I am, until he says I'm not."

"And you're going to - what? Just take whatever he decides to dish out?"

He nodded. "That's how it's done. And why don't you give up that disgusting habit?"

"Because everybody needs a vice," she shot back. "Maybe you should find one."

"A vice?"

"Yes. Seems to me tabacc or booze or sex or gambling - even spice, for the gods' sake - would be less destructive than getting repeatedly sucker-punched by an arrogant, overbearing, heartless Jedi Master."

"He's none of those things, K'terra. You don't understand."

She rose and came to stand beside him, looking deep into his eyes, seeing the pain that he absolutely would not acknowledge. "I understand all too well, Little Friend. Obi, don't stay here with him. Let me take you back to Coruscant. You're not well, you know. You're still febrile. Probably in the early stages of a viral infection or something. You don't have to stay here."

The padawan stood and looked down at her and was grateful for the affection and concern he read in her eyes.

But her concerns could not be his. He knew his duty.

"I'm sorry, Captain," he said softly, "and I do appreciate your kindness. But I am a Jedi padawan. No matter whether or not I'll still be one tomorrow. I go where he goes."

Finally, she nodded and cupped his chin with her hand. "Probably just as well," she said with a grin. "Poor Viszt is having to take cold showers every half hour, just to keep his mind off you. Not to mention his hands."

He chuckled softly, and she was grateful to see that he still could.

She sighed. "If you're determined to stay, I can't stop you. And, unfortunately, I can't hang around and hope you change your mind. I have to get back to Coruscant PDQ."

His smile was warm and gentle. "Are you always such a mother hen? Do you worry over all your Jedi passengers like this?"

Mischief flared in her eyes. "Only the ones with starfire eyes and pinchable bottoms."

A blush stained his features. "I should apologize. I didn't mean for you to have to - um - uh . . ."

"Forget it," she said, with a roguish wink. "Best fun I've had all year."

He groaned and covered his eyes, much to her delight. She took a final draught on her tabacc stick before grinding it out in a metal dish.

"He's probably ready to implode out there," she observed, "so I guess it's time to make our dramatic entrance. But do me one favor. OK?"

"If I can."

"If he's going to cut you down with a lightsaber, don't just stand there and take it. OK?"

"He won't do that."

"No? Sorry, Kiddo. But, from where I'm standing, I think he's capable of just about anything. You seem to be standing between him and his heart's desire. Think about it this way; if the situation were reversed, what would you do?"

He said nothing, but he also wouldn't meet her eyes.

For a moment, she was silent. Then, she reached out and laid her hand on his shoulder. "Forget I said that. It wouldn't work, anyway. Because you don't have it in you to do what he's doing. In your whole life, I wonder if you ever did anything, just because it was what you wanted to do."

"One thing," he answered. "One thing, for sure."

She smiled as she adjusted his Padawan braid. "And what was that?"

He turned to move to the door. "I wanted to be Qui-Gon Jinn's padawan. It's all I ever wanted."

Captain K'terra remained motionless in the briefing room as the apprentice opened the hatch and made his exit. She found that she didn't want to move; wasn't sure that she could move; and knew damned well that she shouldn't move. For, if she did, and if there happened to be a blaster, or a vibro-shiv, or a lightsaber, or an old-fashioned unidentified blunt instrument handy, she knew beyond all doubt that she would cheerfully murder one Jedi Master.

When she finally made her way back to the cockpit, she found her first mate engaged in final approach procedures, and the Jedi nowhere in sight.

 

************* ******************* *************

 

Obi-Wan stood in his customary place, beside and slightly behind his Master, his hands folded deep into the sleeves of his Jedi robe, his hood pulled up to obscure most of his face.

Qui-Gon stood silently, no more than a meter away; yet, for all the contact between them, it might have been light years. The bond was silent, vacant, empty. Like a house no longer lived in. 

For five long years, the bond had been only marginally functional; open enough to allow only the most vital communication and mundane messages, but allowing no emotional exchange. Now, not even that minimal function continued. It still existed, but only in the manner that a corpse continues to exist, even when the life force has departed. It was just a shell now. Without life. Meaningless.

"I am pleased that you have recovered, padawan," said the Master, not turning to face his apprentice.

"Yes, Master. Thank you for your concern."

"You are recovered. Aren't you?"

Obi-Wan tamped down on the emotional surge that wanted to scream that, of all persons, his own Master should know, without having to ask. "Yes, Master. I'm fine."

"Good. We'll have much to do here. The closing of this facility and its relocation will require much planning and careful organization."

"You've already decided to close it down?" The apprentice could not quite conceal his surprise. "I thought we were only to evaluate and recommend."

But the Master was far beyond noticing his padawan's misgivings. "Mere formalities. The Jedi in residence has already made a perfectly reasonable assessment. It's a mere waste of time to delay the inevitable."

"But, Master, no one, outside this facility, has any idea what effect these children may have on other Force sensitives. Shouldn't we . . ."

For the first time, the Master turned to regard his apprentice, and his eyes were disconcertingly brilliant. "Are you questioning my authority, Padawan?"

Obi-Wan struggled to find his breath and to endure the wave of resentment issuing from those midnight eyes, now so intensely cold. "No, Master. I simply thought . . ."

"Don't. I'll do the thinking for both of us."

The apprentice fell silent, but he absolutely refused to lower his eyes. He had done nothing wrong, and his Master had, with that one remark, just smashed the most basic tenet of the Jedi Code into powdery fragments - the one that proclaimed that it was a primary task of a Jedi Master to instill and inspire in his padawan the capacity for independent thought.

Still, he didn't trust himself to speak. Instead he simply nodded and consciously reached within himself to add yet another layer of emotional shielding to the barrier that already surrounded him like a wall. These next hours and days were not going to be easy; he knew that.

He would not add to his own misery by allowing anyone to sense what was happening deep within his consciousness. Deep in the darkness, where light was slowly bleeding away. Deep in the night of his soul, where he was, now and finally, alone - dining on bitter silence.

There was a gentle thump and a settling sensation as the ship found its balance on landing struts. Another thump, and the exterior hatch swung open as the landing ramp extruded from the recess beneath the hatch.

Obi-Wan remained shielded tight, but the Master, undoubtedly distracted by the prospects of so many dreams about to be realized, was not quite so vigilant in maintaining his own protection. And one brief flicker of his emotions streaked out into the Force.

The Padawan felt it go through him like a blade. Pure joy. Pure anticipation. Pure exultation. Pure love. For a moment, he stumbled, feeling it as an almost physical assault. Pure emotions, such as he had never felt before. Such as had never - even at the best of times - been directed at him.

He recovered quickly, and the Master, being completely focused on the opening hatch, noticed nothing.

The ramp was still in motion as the Master hurried forward. Obi-Wan followed, as was his custom. Two steps to the side, one step back. It might as well have been a thousand light years.

 

******************* **************** ****************

 

The residents of the training facility had assembled hastily, on being advised of the arrival of the ship. It was obvious that visitors were rare, and the excitement in the air was almost palpable.

This might indeed be a Jedi facility, housing Force sensitive children, but it was not the Temple, and these children, despite having had basic Jedi training, were not the products of initiate instruction. Though familiar with the Force, they were not skilled in its use, and they had little facility in suppressing their emotions. 

Obi-Wan felt the ambiance as a curious tickling within his Force sensitivity, not unpleasant, but definitely unsettling. 

On the other hand, the children's sincere happiness and eagerness to greet the new arrivals was unmistakable and quite lovely.

Master Ge'lias ru Caeri stepped forward to greet the Jedi team, and his smile was broad and warm. 

"It is a great pleasure to see you again, my friend," he said to Qui-Gon, with a brief nod to the padawan.

"Ge'lias," replied Qui-Gon, nodding in turn, eyes sweeping the ranks of the children lined up behind the Master.

Sweeping. Sweeping. . . . . Stopping.

Breathtaking blue eyes - keen, bright, unintimidated, frankly appraising.

Qui-Gon tried - really tried - not to move toward that face.

"Master?" said Obi-Wan softly, trying to avoid a potential disaster.

But the Master was beyond listening.

The two, as it happened, stood side by side, and Qui-Gon fell to his knees before them, as Ge'lias ru Caeri and Obi-Wan Kenobi exchanged worried glances. He said nothing, and he made no move to touch either of them. Which was a very good thing, as both looked ready to bolt. He just knelt there in the dust and stared.

"Padawan," said the facility's Head Master, barely audible, "this is not good. We need to get your Master inside. There are things he needs to see and hear."

Obi-Wan nodded, and spared a half second to wonder why the Force insisted on putting him into such predicaments. Sometimes, it seemed, the Force really did hate him.

He moved forward silently to lean over and speak softly directly into his Master's ear. "They're frightened, Master. You don't want that, surely. Please come with me. You'll have plenty of time to speak to them both - later."

For a moment, it appeared that the Master had not heard or would simply choose to ignore his Padawan. But finally, he gave a slight nod, and rose to his feet. Though his eyes continually returned to the two bright faces, he allowed himself to be led into the main building of the training facility.

When the children were, finally, out of sight, Master ru Caeri heaved a sigh of relief, and Qui-Gon Jinn seemed to come back to himself - from a great distance. It was then that he noticed that, somewhere along the path into the building, he had lost Obi-Wan.

As they moved into Ge'lias' private office, he seemed slightly disoriented.

"My apprentice?" he asked, finally.

Ru Caeri regarded him solemnly before answering. "Well, at least, you do remember that you have one. That's encouraging."

Qui-Gon Jinn could trade cold glares with the best of them, and tried one on now. But it didn't take very well. "The children are curious. They've had little exposure to other Jedi. I think it safe to say they'll find him more approachable than you. So I asked him to remain with them, for the time being."

"But I could . . ."

"No. You could not. Under present circumstances, you're much too intimidating. Besides, you have other concerns."

"What kind of concerns?"

Ru Caeri busied himself for a moment with pouring and serving hot, fragrant tea. When both were savoring the robust aroma, he addressed Qui-Gon's question. "I get the impression that you have already reached a decision concerning the disposition of these children, even though you cannot possibly have weighed all the facts."

"I have been guided," replied Qui-Gon carefully, "by your recommendations."

The Locabarian Master closed his eyes and sipped his tea. "Not if you've decided to take them to the Temple, you haven't. Because that was not my recommendation."

"But you asked . . ."

"I asked for a re-evaluation, by an independent Jedi team. And I must say, I'm at a total loss to understand why the Council sent you. I do not consider you independent in this matter. You're too interconnected."

Master Jinn put on his best serene Jedi face. "I assure you I am quite capable of independent judgment."

"Of course you are," replied ru Caeri, "as you so amply demonstrated on coming face to face with the son of your late lover and your late padawan, not to mention the clone of that self-same lover."

"It was disconcerting," Qui-Gon admitted.

"Disconcerting?" The Locabarian snorted. "It was a disaster. For you, as well as them, I'm sure."

"I will learn to deal with it."

Ru Caeri leaned forward and stared at his counterpart. "Will you, now? Well, let's just see how unbiased you're able to be, Master Jinn, when you hear my actual recommendation for a solution to the problem that's growing here."

"Which is what, exactly?"

The Locabarian had eyes of pale amber - almost yellow - startling in a face that appeared to be carved from dark mahogany. But it was rather amazing that such strange eyes could project such abject misery every bit as effectively as any human eye.

"These children, through no fault of their own, are extremely dangerous, old Friend. They threaten the most basic use of the Force; and I fear it is for this, exactly, that they were created. If there is a solution, I cannot find it."

"Then what is it you recommend?"

Ru Caeri looked as if he wanted to find a place to hide from the fruits of his own thoughts. But he was a Jedi. He would do no such thing.

"I can think of no way to insure that these children can be isolated - permanently - from contact with any other living beings. No way. But that is the only permanent solution. Barring that . . ."

He grew silent, staring into nothingness.

"No-o-o," whispered Qui-Gon, eyes widening with horror. "You don't mean to suggest that they be destroyed."

The headmaster turned to gaze out through the tall windows behind his desk. A group of the children had wandered into a small playground, Obi-Wan in their midst. The Padawan, ru Caeri could see, was in his element, both delighting and delighted by the children's interest and enthusiasm. Faintly, a burst of laughter could be heard, and sunlight seemed to focus around Obi-Wan and reflect onto the faces smiling up at him.

"They are basically artificially generated beings," he reflected, "but, oh, my, old friend, they are endlessly charming and fascinating and skilled at injecting life into a weary old heart." He turned back to face Qui-Gon, whose eyes were haunted and, suddenly, very old. "They killed my wife, you know."

"But . . "

"There's no proof," he admitted. "Yet I know it is true. And they know I know it. They will, almost certainly, kill me too, one day soon. I am not overly alarmed, I find, as I am sure they will do it the same way. Quick, clean, bloodless, and painless."

"But why would they?"

Ru Caeri shook his head. "If you seek to understand their motives, you're wasting your time. They neither think nor reason as we do. Yet, they do have motives; they are not mindless. They are simply beyond our comprehension."

Qui-Gon rose abruptly and went to stand at the window. The two - the special two - were among the group in the playground, and both were in close proximity to his padawan. Very close proximity. Closer than any of the others.

"Obi-Wan," said the Master softly, almost reluctantly. "Is he . . ."

"Safe?"

Qui-Gon merely nodded.

"Took you long enough to ask. But, yes. For the moment, he's quite safe. As long as they don't perceive him as a threat, and as long as he continues to interest them, he'll be fine. But make no mistake about it; they are as capable of killing out of sheer boredom, as out of blind rage."

"How can you say that?"

"Because I know them, Master Jinn. Better than anybody. These children are as bright and talented and enthusiastic as any other children. Indeed, even more so. But they are not - as we understand the term - really children. For they were born without something that is fundamental to all sentient beings."

"And that is what?"

The Locabarian's eyes, once more, were steeped in pain. "Empathy. They have no empathy, Master Jinn. Compassion is as foreign to them, as cannibalism would be to you or I."

"I cannot accept that."

"Because you don't want to. But, no matter how difficult it is, you must put aside your personal desires, and be guided by the Force. If, that is, you are able to access it here. Sometimes, it is most difficult."

Qui-Gon moved toward the door.

"There is one more thing you must do," said ru Caeri, something in his voice suggesting that he was reluctant to broach this subject.

"Such as?"

The Locabarian rose and moved to a panel concealed in a tall bookcase. From within a concealed compartment, he retrieved a holodisk, which he handed to Qui-Gon.

"What is this?" asked the tall Jedi, confusion plain in his eyes.

"A message for you. It has been waiting here - untouched - for almost six years."

"Then how would . . . . I don't understand."

Ru Caeri turned once more toward the window, and smiled to note that the children had ensnared the young Jedi in a game of blast ball.

"Tahl left it for you, the last time she was here. The year before she died. It was left with the instruction that, if you ever learned about this place and these children, it was to be given to you."

Qui-Gon found, suddenly, that his legs would not support him. He sank into the nearest chair gratefully.

The head Master's face was not unkind. "You may view it here, in privacy. I will join your apprentice and leave you in peace. Incidentally, no one else has ever seen it."

Qui-Gon managed an absent-minded nod, as ru Caeri left the room and closed the door behind him.

For some minutes, the Master simply sat, unable and unwilling to activate the holo-recording.

Finally, with a wordless cry, he slammed the device onto the desktop and hit the switch simultaneously.

It was a miniature device, and when she formed, she was barely a half-meter tall, sitting at a desk much like the one on which her image rested.

"So you found it," she said softly, a smile playing on her lips. "And, if you're seeing this, you found it after I was gone. And I'm assuming that I never told you about it."

She stood and seemed to walk toward him. "Because I wouldn't have, you know. I don't know if I can make you see why. I only know that if you had never known, it would have been better for everyone."

"My dear Qui-Gon, these children - however old they may be when you come here - are not who they appear to be. This girl is not me. This boy is not Xanatos. And neither of them hold the key to your happiness."

"The one who holds that particular key is already in your life. I pray with every ounce of my being that you have not managed to lose Obi-Wan somewhere along the way. Because, my dear old friend, you have a habit of not seeing what is most important in your life, what is right in front of your face."

"Even if these children were exactly who they seem to be, neither would ever be worthy of replacing him, in your life or in your heart. You have, I hope, by this time found the courage to give to him what he has so richly earned and what will ultimately insure your own happiness. If you haven't yet given him your heart, then someone needs to give you a good swift kick in the pants, my Love."

"Please, Qui-Gon," she continued, her sincerity blazing in those amazing eyes, "please do not allow your misguided impulses to rule your reason where these children are concerned. Their plight, it's true, is through no fault of their own, but their destiny must not be tied to yours or to the Jedi. This I feel in my heart."

Finally, she sat again and seemed to gather her thoughts. "The boy, it's true, is the child of my loins, after a fashion. Xanatos, however, made it perfectly clear, during my captivity, that genetic manipulation, done in utero, would retain only minimal hereditary characteristics from me. He is, almost exclusively, the son of Xanatos. I know you don't like hearing this; I know it still hurts. But it must be said. In the end, Xanatos was a monster - a cruel, vicious, spiteful, malevolent creature of evil. And if you believe that this was not done for the purpose of causing you as much pain as possible, then you're more of a fool that I thought possible. This child is a weapon, aimed straight at your heart."

She stood again and stared straight into the holo-camera. "Obi-Wan is worth a thousand of him. Please, please, Old friend. Know that. Feel it in your heart. Believe it in your soul. Do not, I beg you, throw away everything that makes life precious, for the sake of a memory that was never real."

She sat again. "I hope," she said softly, smiling gently, "I had a chance to say good-bye, and to tell you how much I have always loved you. Farewell, old friend."

There was total stillness in the room. Nothing moved, including the Jedi Master still lost in an image of yesterday. He barely breathed. For a time, he saw nothing, heard nothing - barely existed. For a time, he walked only in memory, and, with his eyes shut tight, could almost believe he heard the echo of her footstep and sensed a drift of her fragrance.

_How I miss you, my Love. If only . . ._

Finally, he shook himself and looked out through the window, just in time to see his padawan, his beautiful padawan, leap into the midst of a rowdy group of children, a ball of some sort clasped in his arms. The children were laughing hysterically, one of them - blue-eyed, black-haired, with a small crescent-shaped birthmark - literally rolling on the ground, weak with mirth.

Qui-Gon rose, tucked the holo-chip deep into his pocket, and went to begin his investigation. The sound of laughter reached him again, children's laughter.

He understood the concerns of the facility's head Master; he really did. As well as the concerns of the woman who had been the love of his life.

But these were children, no matter what the misgivings of the other Masters. Innocent children. Force-sensitive children. Gifted children.

He could not deny them access to training. He knew there were those among them with the potential to become great Jedi. Possibly the greatest Jedi of all.

Great enough to be known as the final legacy of Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn.

 

************** ******************** ******************  
tbc


	8. Crying Solitary in Lonely Places

Chapter 8: Crying Solitary in Lonely Places

 

_I hear the little children of the wind  
Crying solitary in lonely places. _

\--- William (Fiona McLeod) Sharp -- _Little Children of the Wind_

 

Obi-Wan tossed his duffle atop a small chest and sank gratefully into the narrow bed that was almost the room's only furniture. He took a moment to study his surroundings; it didn't take long as, he observed, he had seen larger closets. One tall window, facing west, one miniscule cupboard, one narrow door leading to a tiny 'fresher. It didn't take long to inventory. But it mattered little at the moment. It was a room, with a door that would serve to shut out whatever he decided to shut out. And it had a bed, to welcome and cradle his weary body.

He stretched out on his back, noted that the mattress beneath him had a few sizeable lumps, located at a couple of conspicuous spots, and used just a nuance of Force manipulation to adjust everything to allow him optimum comfort. Of course, realigning the stuffing in the mattress did absolutely nothing to allay the aches in his chest and shoulder; by the Force he sometimes wondered if his ribs would ever be completely whole again. It seemed that every time he got reasonably close to a full recovery, he found a way to crack another one.

Still using only the Force, and ignoring a tiny little voice in his head that chided him for using it in such a trivial pursuit, he loosened his sash, belt, and tunics, and looked down to see that the lurid bruise splashed across his torso was still discernible, if not quite as brilliantly colored.

For a moment, he let his eyes drift closed. By the goddess, he was tired. He was really, _really_ tired. If he stayed here, in this position, for very long, he knew that he would never get up again, until someone came and rousted him out of bed.

With a sigh, he heaved himself upright.

Couldn't allow that, of course. No way was he going to embarrass his Master by having to be hauled out of bed like a drowsy toddler.

He had no idea that, as he sat there on the edge of that bed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, hair mussed and braid draped over his shoulder, back-lit now by slanting rose-tinted rays of the lowering sun streaming through the open window, he looked like nothing so much as a beautiful sleepy child, breathtaking in his innocence; had Qui-Gon Jinn walked through the door at that exact moment and been sufficiently attentive to notice the poignancy of the portrait before him, things might have proceeded differently from that moment on.

But then again, given the Master's uncanny capacity to avoid seeing that which contradicted the preconceived notion in his mind, maybe not.

And, as the apprentice forced himself to rise, effectively destroying the charming vignette of the moment, the door did swing open, after a brief, cursory knock.

"Master," said Obi-Wan, his expression slightly wary.

"Padawan."

The Jedi Master strode to the window and looked down on the deepening shadows now devouring the formal garden behind the sprawling house.

"Tell me about them."

As a young initiate in the Temple, Obi-Wan Kenobi had exhibited such prodigious promise in his Force abilities that older, wiser Jedi, in positions of authority, had elected to overlook certain aspects of his personality that some few found troubling. One such trait was a decided talent for mischief - finding it, promoting it, and, when all else failed, creating it. Since being claimed as padawan of the great Qui-Gon Jinn, he had made a prodigious effort to rid himself of this flaw in his character. He really had. He just never - quite - managed to discard it so completely that he was beyond its reach. Even in the midst of moments of abject terror or total devastation, some perverse quirk of his signature sense of humor always seemed to rise up and spark some totally inappropriate response to the stimuli around him.

Like right now. He knew full well which 'them' his Master was referring to, but he was damned if he was going to make it that simple.

"If you don't mind, Master," he said softly, "I need a shower. The children are quite lively, and our game was very strenuous. I'll be happy to prepare a report for you once I'm presentable."

Qui-Gon turned and stared at his padawan, and something unexpected moved in the depths of his eyes. "You are always presentable, my Padawan."

Obi-Wan, who had been moving steadily toward the 'fresher, concentrating on nothing more stimulating than the anticipation of steaming water drumming on his sore back, was stopped in his tracks. "Master? What . . . is there something . ."

Qui-Gon turned back to the window, now growing dim as the sun slipped below the horizon. "I'm not such a fool as to be unaware of your discomfort, my Padawan. It's not what I want. You have been . . ." He fell silent abruptly, and simply stared into the gathering darkness.

Obi-Wan stood motionless, his eyes bright as the new stars just waking overhead. "You want me to tell you it's all right," he said softly. "That's it, isn't it?"

Qui-Gon wouldn't - couldn't - answer him directly. Instead, he began to speak, barely above a whisper, almost as if he were talking to himself. "I've lived my life for my duty as a Jedi. It has always sustained me. It's always been enough. Until - until I recognized that there was something more, that duty - by itself - is cold and harsh and unforgiving."

Obi-Wan moved to stand beside his Master, and tried to read what was in the older man's eyes, but the deepening dusk made it impossible to see clearly. Amazingly, the Padawan chuckled softly, bittersweetly. "She said it would come down to this," he said, still smiling.

"What are you talking about?"

"Captain K'terra."

"The woman's a menace!"

"No. Just concerned for me. She said that you would try to cut me down with a lightsaber, and that I shouldn't just stand there and let you do it."

Qui-Gon turned to face his apprentice, and the haughty weight of the entire Jedi order was in his face. "You know I would never harm you, Obi-Wan."

Obi-Wan stepped away. "No, Master. I don't think I do. I used to know it, but I don't any more."

"What are you saying?"

Obi-Wan turned and walked toward the 'fresher. "Only this, my Master. If you choose to dismiss me, in favor of your 'heart's desire', I can't stop you. But I will not stand by and give you my blessing."

"Obi-Wan!" The Master's tone was raw with anger.

The padawan stopped, but refused to turn around. "You're forgetting something. You're forgetting that I know what Xanatos did to you, because I'm the one that waited around to pick up the pieces when you decided you'd grieved long enough. So let me clue you in on something. Something you're not going to want to hear; something you're going to refuse to believe, even. But your refusal doesn't make it any less true."

Now the apprentice swung to face his Master, and his own boiling rage burned clear in eyes dark with passion. "I spent the whole afternoon in the company of your 'heart's desire', which, I grant you, doesn't provide enough time to make an informed judgment about anything. But it's a good beginning. And you can either choose to listen to me, as you occasionally have in the past, or ignore me. But at least admit to yourself that, while I am quite capable of being mistaken, I do not lie. And I'm telling you as clearly as I can that there's something dreadfully wrong here. There's something wrong with all these children, and, most of all, there's something wrong with that boy."

Qui-Gon was across the room in the blink of an eye, and his hands clamped down hard on his Padawan's arms. Obi-Wan stood without flinching, despite the fact that he could feel the bruises forming, all the way down to the bone. "You will not repeat that. You are being guided by your own pathetic feelings of envy."

"Are you going to strike me, Master?" said the youth in a voice of dead calm. "If I say what you don't want to hear, is that what it's come to?"

Qui-Gon's breath caught in his throat as he looked down and noted the discoloration of the boy's flesh under his hands. Immediately, he opened his fingers, and moved one palm to caress Obi-Wan's face. "Padawan, please . . ."

But Obi-Wan had seen too much, realized too much. He shook his head, pulling away from the stroke of that hand, and struggled to find breath to speak. "Not even I can be that forgiving, Master. I'm sorry. For what it's worth, I know you wouldn't have hurt me, if there were any other way. But there isn't, and we both know it. You want Xanatos as your padawan, and the only way that happens is if I'm dismissed. It's within your power; it's certainly your right. But I won't simply step aside. I won't just slink off into the night and vanish. If nothing else over these last seven years, I think I've earned the right to demand a little respect. If I'm to be expelled from the Jedi, you will have to do it, and you will have to do it bringing to bear the full weight of Jedi tradition. Otherwise, I simply won't go."

"You will challenge me?" The Master looked a bit as if he had been bitten by a butterfly.

"Challenge?" Obi-Wan smiled. "Of course not. I challenge nothing. I simply demand my rights, under the Code. To dismiss me, you must stand up in Council and state your reasons for my expulsion."

"And you doubt that I will go through with that," said Qui-Gon, voice hollow and empty.

"Actually, no," replied the Padawan. "I'm pretty sure you will."

As the boy turned away once more, Qui-Gon called out, "It will not be good for the Jedi."

Again, Obi-Wan paused and looked back over his shoulder. "You'll forgive me, Master," he said softly, "if, just this once, I say, 'Fuck the Jedi'."

"Why would you want this? Why this public display?"

There was no defiance left in the youth, and he drew on all the Force strength he possessed to keep the tremor out of his voice. "All my life, I have wanted but one thing. To be a Jedi knight. That's all. If I am to be denied this dream, I no longer wish to desire it. I wish for you, my Master, to utterly destroy the dream, so that it no longer seems desirable. I want not to want it any more."

"As you wish," said the Master, all trace of warmth gone from his voice. "May I expect your continued obedience for the remainder of our stay here?"

"Of course. I am still your padawan. For today, at least."

"Then clean yourself up and prepare to join the children for dinner. They, for some reason, seem quite taken with you. Doubtless, they have yet to see your stubborn, willful side."

The boy nodded, refusing to look back at the Master. "Doubtless. Would that be the stubborn, willful side that waited five years for you to decide to live again?"

"Do not try to manipulate me, Padawan."

And there was now no way for the apprentice to completely conceal the shaking of his shoulders. "I'll be down momentarily," he whispered. "I would appreciate a few moments of privacy, to freshen up."

He didn't wait to be dismissed, but moved quickly to put a closed door between himself and the man to whom he had pledged his life all those years ago.

The shower was small, but the water was hot and plentiful and delivered with satisfying force. The padawan stood beneath the deluge, and allowed the hot tears to come. He would cry no more before his Master; this he promised himself. If dissolution of their bond were inevitable, with or without his consent or approval, he would face it with a dignity commensurate with his status as a senior Padawan. But here - where no prying eyes could penetrate - he would deal with the terrible, raw pain, letting it run through him and reduce him to one large open wound, before trying to release it into the Force.

For a while, he simply settled himself on the floor of the shower and sobbed helplessly.

But he did not linger. He still had duties to perform, duties owed by virtue of his allegiance to a Master who no longer wanted him. But loyalty, in the tradition of the Jedi, was not necessarily a bilateral exchange. He would continue to be who he was - Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi padawan of Master Qui-Gon Jinn - until the Master took that identity from him. And he would worry about that when the time came.

He stepped out of the shower, dried himself, and wrapped a towel around his waist before leaving the 'fresher.

As he reached for his duffle, to retrieve clean clothing, a muscle spasm gripped his shoulder, and he went to his knees with a gasp.

A quick swirl in the Force, and a stir in the shadows before the window, served to inform him that he was not alone in the room, just before he was overwhelmed with a surge of warmth and comfort as strong, solid arms enveloped him and a huge hand moved to ease his torment.

"Master, what are you. . ."

"Hush," replied Qui-Gon softly. "You are still my padawan, and you're in pain. Or are you so angry that you'll refuse my help?"

"No. I won't refuse." The apprentice was careful to keep his head down, face buried in the softness of Qui-Gon's robe, words muffled, barely audible. He drew a deep breath, fighting for composure, as the Master poured waves of healing energy into his bruised and battered body.

And he absolutely refused to acknowledge the probability that this might be the very last time he would ever be the recipient of his Master's tender healing.

 

**************** ******************* ****************

 

But if the apprentice was refusing to examine such thoughts, the Master was innundated with them, as he gazed down at the youth cradled so gently in his arms. So gently, so appropriately. Where he belonged.

Qui-Gon finished easing the offending muscle and then moved on to concentrate on the ugly bruising that still splashed his Padawan's torso.

The boy was completely quiescent, moving only under Qui-Gon's urging, face concealed, breathing deep and regular. He might almost have been sleeping, except for the fact that his Master, who had been tapped into that fine young sentience since time out of mind, could sense his alertness, his readiness to spring to his feet and flee at the first sign that his acquiescence was being mistaken for weakness. Like a creature of the wild, caught and held in place against his will. But not really against his will.  
For beneath the barely concealed flight instinct was something much deeper, much older: the need of a child for the tenderness of a parent.

Obi-Wan was still a raw, aching wound, and the Master knew, without doubt, that he alone could heal that throbbing injury.

How could he do this? How could he inflict such misery on this boy - this boy who was as precious to him as life and breath?

He took a deep breath, and sat back, opening space between the two of them, but still maintaining his contact with his apprentice. "Obi-Wan?"

The face remained lowered, closed and distant. "Yes, Master." A strange, almost strangled voice, reaching for tranquility but not quite there yet.

"I don't . . ."

"Don't what?"

The face lifted, and Qui-Gion felt himself impaled by beams of azure light from those incredible, spectacular eyes.

"I don't want to lose you."

_I am not going to cry - am not._

The padawan managed a very small, unsteady smile. "Your choice, Master. Not mine."

"There must be a way."

Obi-Wan sighed and tried to contain his disappointment. Nothing had really changed, except, perhaps, that his Master had realized that the price he would pay for realizing his fondest wish was larger, maybe, than he had first believed.

He said nothing. Just continued to regard the senior Jedi with wounded eyes that were, somehow, so much more eloquent than words.

Qui-Gon rose and moved back to the window, and gazed out toward a lake that lay like a sheet of glass, reflecting the wakening of swarms of stars in the deepening sweep of night. "Tell me what you meant," he said slowly.

This time, the Padawan would not pretend to misunderstand. He took a moment to organize his thoughts as he rummaged for clean clothes and pulled on fresh leggings. Then he sat, cross-legged and bare-chested, on the bed and regarded his Master solemnly. 

"We both know that the Force signature of most clones is radically different from most natural life forms. That's not the case with these children. There is still a difference, but it's subtle. Elusive to grasp. It's like a tiny distortion in their Force frequency.

"It's almost like trying to tune in a holo-channel when you can't access the proper bandwidth. You can receive it, but it's not quite perfect.'

"Strange that I have not sensed this," mused the Master.

Obi-Wan shook his head. "Not strange at all, when you realize that they're blocking you out."

The Master's eyes opened wide. "Blocking? They're blocking _me_?" There was patent disbelief in his voice.

The Padawan smiled. It would ordinarily be beyond credibility that anyone other than an equally gifted Jedi Master could have blocked the Force sense of Qui-Gon Jinn. "I found it hard to believe too. At first. But it doesn't take long to realize how powerful they are."

"Powerful in what way?"

Hearing a note of desperation in his Master's voice, Obi-Wan spent a moment studying that craggy face. "Did you look at the genetic data, Master? Do you understand what they were designed to do?"

"No. I haven't seen it yet."

Obi-Wan rose and came to stand at his Master's side, and looked down into the darkness. "The DNA strands that were manipulated all control cognitive and telepathic skills. It seems that they have little facility in actual Force manipulation, but they can read it as if it were printed on a page, and they can suppress it. Selectively."

The Master turned to study his Padawan, who was now only a silhouette in the shadows. Nevertheless, the swarm of stars beyond the window sparked cerulean luminescence in his eyes. "Are you saying that they blocked me, but they didn't block you?"

"Yes."

"Why would they do that?"

The boy shrugged. "Maybe they find me less threatening."

A brief gleam of amusement flared in midnight eyes, and, even through the silence of their bond, Obi-Wan sensed his Master's smile. "Obviously, they don't know you very well."

The boy grinned. It was common knowledge among the Jedi that, though the padawan was considerably smaller (not to mention prettier) than his Master, he was considered no less lethal. There were, in fact, actually some in the Temple (all sore losers, according to Obi-Wan) who accused the Master of engaging in some kind of scurrilous effort to enhance the padawan's natural beauty, in order to distract and disarm potential opponents.

One particularly disgruntled apprentice had actually had the temerity to speak the allegation to Obi-Wan's face, during the first brush of winter, just after Obi-Wan had turned sixteen. In the previous summer, the padawan had seemed to outgrow all his adolescent awkwardness, gaining, in its place, an extraordinary grace and fairness that left his fellow padawans dumbstruck with envy - or desire - or both.

The self-same disgruntled apprentice, sneering at the 'pretty boy' who also just happened to be six inches shorter and sixty pounds lighter than he, accepted, with an ugly laugh, the smaller padawan's invitation to spar. The bout lasted slightly more than three minutes. Obi-Wan never even broke a sweat, and the disgruntled apprentice wound up with saber burns on his backside, a bloody nose (courtesy of one resounding, lightening fast kick to the face), and a haircut so bizarre it even made the regulation Padawan cut look semi-normal.

At the conclusion of the match, the infamous Master Qui-Gon Jinn had knelt beside the bloodied apprentice and gazed into the boy's teary eyes. As he dispensed healing energy, he had spoken briefly. "You might consider that it would be both foolish and futile to attempt to gild the rose, and I am neither. On the other hand, it is the height of folly to bait the draigon in its lair. It profits you nothing, and annoys the draigon."

Which had given rise to one of the many nicknames Obi-Wan had acquired over the years. Not to his face, of course, but some of his piers still referred to him as "the draigon rose."

The shared memory seemed to swirl around them. "How is Padawan Janka these days?" asked the Master, with a smile only slightly malevolent.

"Recuperating, as usual, Master."

"You didn't . . . ."

"Not me. Ciara. He made the mistake of calling her a 'delicate flower'."

Qui-Gon chuckled. "Uh-oh."

"Indeed." Obi-Wan laughed. "He thought he was being charming, I think. The 'delicate flower' kicked him into the middle of next week, not to mention right square in the . . . uh, um . . well, you get the idea, I'm sure."

Qui-Gon's eyes followed his padawan's movements hungrily, and Obi-Wan tried not to believe it was because he was storing up images against an expected draught.

"You'd think the boy would learn, eventually," said the Master softly.

Obi-Wan turned to favor his mentor with a long, silent look, his eyes dark and bruised. "Some people never learn," he replied finally, making no attempt to camouflage his meaning.

Qui-Gon appeared to mull over his response, before deciding to smile and ignore the sting of the barbed remark. "Tell me the rest, Padawan."

The apprentice took a deep breath. "Are you sure you want to hear the rest, Master?"

"No. In fact, I'm fairly sure I don't. But I need to hear it, whether I like it or not. Tell me about the boy."

Obi-Wan paused for a moment, gazing out into the darkness, apparently choosing his words with care. "Different from the others in some ways. But very much like them in others."

"Meaning?"

Obi-Wan's lips twitched in a tiny, slightly embarrassed smile. "The strongest shielding I've ever seen. I could barely scratch the surface, and he caught me, straight off."

"He caught you?" The Master was obviously startled. Obi-Wan's gifts in dismantling and penetrating mental shields were well documented, and he was so skilled and so subtle in his methods that he usually managed to complete his mental browsing without ever being detected by his subject.

"Like a toddler raiding the cookie jar."

"And he responded how?"

The Padawan's eyes narrowed. "With a not-so-veiled warning. Basically, he asked - telepathically - if I'd like to have him sifting through _my_ mind."

"He actually spoke to you telepathically?"

"Loud and clear."

Qui-Gon couldn't quite keep his excitement out of his voice. "That would seem to indicate a formidable Force presence."

"Umhmm, formidable, indeed!"

The Master sighed. "So you actually were unable to get a real sense of him?"

Obi-Wan appeared lost in contemplation of the night sky. "I didn't say that," he said softly.

The Master was suddenly very still, knowing they had come to a critical juncture. "Go on."

"My perceptions," said the apprentice, "were not as clear as I'd like. It was a bit like peering at something through layers of water."

"What, exactly, do you think you saw?"

But Obi-Wan, despite his determination to make his observation as clear as possible, was yet not prepared to allow any distortion - or dismissal - of his vision. "There's a great emptiness within him, Master. A void, if you will, cold and dark, and thick with menace. It seems to consume light. But it isn't really empty. It's . . I can't quite . . . " He raised a trembling hand to his forehead, and almost staggered.

The Master was at his side in an instant, bracing him with a firm hand on his shoulder. "What is it, Padawan?"

The boy shook his head gently, then looked up into Qui-Gon's eyes and smiled. "He doesn't like what I'm saying."

The Master narrowed his eyes and stared into that face that had become the center of his world. "Obi-Wan," said the Master, with just a thread of impatience, "he's a thirteen-year-old child, with only minimal Force training. He can't possibly know what you're saying."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. When he spoke, his voice was laced with serenity and certainty. "He's currently standing at the head of the stairs, waiting for his friends. He has exchanged the blue shirt he was wearing for one that is yellow and blue striped. He's hoping that the cook has prepared nerf stew with mushrooms because that's his favorite, and he has a small bandage on his left wrist, covering a scratch he got when he was out in a boat earlier today."

Once more, the padawan winced slightly. "And, apparently, he just doesn't like to be talked about. No matter how innocuous the discussion."

Qui-Gon's breath seemed to catch in his throat. "He's . . . causing you pain?"

"Just a little prod, Master. A reminder, he'd probably call it."

"But that can't be tolerated, Padawan." The Master was obviously appalled.

Obi-Wan merely shrugged. "He doesn't see it that way. He's just retaliating for my encroachment into his mind."

The Master reached out and laid his hands on his apprentice's shoulders, and stood for a while just looking down into that lovely young face. "You are really quite extraordinary, my Padawan. There's no trace of spite or pettiness within you. I am sometimes humbled by the sweetness of your nature. In spite of everything, you don't hate this child, do you?"

The Padawan grinned. "Not for lack of trying, Master. But there's something almost lovable about him. And, of course, he's probably the most beautiful child any of us have ever seen . . . and ballsy, as well. Lots of kids would have been nervous squaring off against a trained Jedi. I think he had some misgivings; I couldn't quite grab them, but I'm almost sure they were there, but . . . "

"Square off?" interrupted the Master, belatedly grasping what the boy had said. "What do you mean, square off?"

The grin grew wider. "Don't worry, Master. I didn't hurt him; I doubt I _could_ hurt him. We just had a friendly little wrestling match."

"Obi-Wan!" The tone was stern, unforgiving. "He's just a child."

"Ummm, yeah, well, this 'child' - along with a half-dozen of his chums - managed to recrack that infamous rib that never wants to heal."

"They ganged up on you?"

The grin became an outright laugh. "Don't sound so dismayed, Master. They may be Force sensitive, but, above all, they're kids. Piling on is what normal kids do."

"But they hurt you."

"I've been hurt before, and worse. I'm OK. What I'm trying to say is that, on the surface, he's a normal kid, if you can ever categorize someone that bright and beautiful as 'normal'. The problems are all inside, and not easy to analyze, or even recognize."

Qui-Gon was silent for a while, seemingly lost in the study of his apprentice's face. After a time, Obi-Wan felt a distinct urge to squirm.

"You don't know, do you?" said the Master, finally.

"Know what?"

"That he's not quite the most beautiful child any of us have ever seen."

Again, Obi-Wan grinned. "I think you better look again."

Qui-Gon's only response was a small smile. He could hear, in his padawan's voice, that the concept of beauty in a young man was a novelty for the youth, something he had not previously examined, or even considered much, a fact that the Master found almost ludicrous. But, then again, Obi-Wan, unlike his Master, had never watched himself walk through Temple corridors, followed by every eye; had never noted the hunger so prevalent in those eyes as that trademark strut gave rise to thoughts quickly suppressed, but not so quickly that the desire kindled was not immediately apparent. Nor did the apprentice know - because the Master had never told him - that he, Qui-Gon, had, at one time or another, been approached by virtually every knight of the Order, most senior Padawans, and a surprising number of Masters, all seeking one thing: permission to "court" his padawan. All such requests had been summarily refused.

If there were to be any courting, Obi-Wan would be the one to take the initiative.

And, of course, he had; the apprentice had certainly amassed his fair share of conquests over the years, as was to be expected. One did not go through life looking like that, sounding like that, and acting like that without collecting admirers. What _was_ unexpected, however, was the boy's ability to end a romantic liaison, once it had run its course, without alienating the other party. Virtually all of the Padawan's ex-girlfriends were still staunch friends.

Nevertheless, the Master was still slightly surprised to realize that his apprentice seemed to be genuinely unaware of his own physical gifts.

Obi-Wan was beautiful, and everyone knew it, except him.

 

***************** **************** **************

 

The boy leaned against the balcony railing, and fought to regain his focus. Earlier, he had been able to hone in on Kenobi's consciousness without even thinking about it; he was surprised, and not entirely pleased, to discover that the padawan's Force signature virtually sparked with power. It was also completely free of dark energy. Obi-Wan Kenobi, more than anyone the boy had ever met, was filled with Light. That very brightness made it easy to find him in the Force, but it was also almost blinding. So finding him was no problem, but understanding him? That might be something else again.

And now, there was that other presence. Not so bright and pure, but hugely powerful. So powerful that it drew the padawan like a magnet draws iron filings, and encompassed that sweet brilliance completely, making it more elusive, less breachable.

"Master Jinn," breathed the teen-ager. "Welcome to Mejanis."

"Can you sense him?" said the lilting voice beside him.

Xani looked up and smiled into eyes streaked with emerald and gold, enchanting eyes, dark-lashed, bright with speculation.

"Yes. Just as we always thought."

"Stronger than the padawan?"

The boy frowned. "Not stronger, exactly. Just more focused. More determined, maybe."

Yoni dropped bonelessly to the top step of the stairs and looked up at the boy who had been her constant companion since birth, the one who was closer to her than anyone else had ever been or ever would be. "I like the padawan."

Xani smiled, but there was no mirth in his eyes. "Everyone likes the padawan. Obi-Wan - the beautiful, the obedient. The perfect apprentice."

"Xani, you're not going to . . . ."

He turned to stare at her, something dreadful rising in his eyes. "And if I do?"

She almost cringed. "Nothing, Xani. Nothing. It's just . . . you don't know what the Master might do. I mean . . . he might . . ."

"Nothing," said the boy, coldly. "That's what the Master would do. Nothing."

Yoni shifted uncomfortably. "He likes you, you know. He's trying not to, but he does."

"Then he's a fool, isn't he?" Xani snapped. "Because I'm the one who's going to replace him. I'm the one who's going to take his precious Master from him."

"Xani, are you sure this is what you want? Why would you . . ."

He stared at the girl, and she had to fight off an urge to shiver. "You can't fight Fate, Yoni. You should know that. Neither of us can be anything but what we were meant to be."

A great darkness seemed to bloom in her green/gold eyes. "But we could, Xani. There's no one around to force us to go through with anything."

"No one around, now," he retorted. "That we know of. But you know that won't last. They'll come for us, sooner or later. And you know what will happen if we don't do the job we were designed to do."

The girl looked down the corridor, toward the room that housed the Jedi padawan. "Maybe he could help us."

"Now why would he do that?"

She faced the boy, without fear. "If you look into his heart- look closely, without preconceptions - you'll see genuine goodness and kindness."

"And compassion, no doubt," replied the boy, not quite sneering. "And a fat lot of good it will do him. It won't save him; it won't keep his Master from turning away from him; it won't even let him defend himself against me. He's too 'pure' for that."

She shook her head, obviously confused. "How can his Master just abandon him?"

"Conditioning."

"What? What do you mean?"

"My father," said Xani, and no one hearing his voice would have been able to decipher his feelings for his infamous parent, "primed him for me. He's set up to accept me for what he wants me to be. To see what he wants to see and believe what he wants to believe."

"But your father betrayed him."

Fire leapt in the boy's eyes, but he did not argue. It was, after all, simple truth. "But that's not what he feels, Yoni. In his heart, he believes that he's the one who failed. That he betrayed my father, not the other way around. So he wants the chance to fix it, to undo what he thinks he did. To make it right."

"And to do that . . ."

For the first time, the boy's gaze faltered, and he refused to meet her eyes. "He'll do something even worse. He'll sacrifice the one who would die before betraying him."

The girl's eyes grew soft and unfocussed, as she seemed to be listening. "Are you sure? He is faltering. His love for the padawan is very strong."

"Yes. So we'll just have to see that something happens to make him re-examine his feelings, for a while."

"For a while? But if he regains that feeling . . ."

The boy smiled, but his eyes remained dark and filled with malice. "Oh, he will regain it, Yoni. He must. But only after it's too late. Only after he's driven away the only thing that could save him."

She put her head down on her knees. "And what will happen to us then?"

Xani reached over and laid his hand on her shoulder. "Why do you ask a question when you already know the answer?"

She sighed. "Maybe I just keep hoping that, one day, the answer will change."

"We have only one purpose, Yoni. That will never change. But it will take a very long time to fulfill it. Consider it job security."

She rose and turned to peer down the hall as the door to Obi-Wan's quarters swung open.

She was surprised to hear a quick indrawn breath from her companion, as the padawan emerged into the hallway, his Master at his heels. "What?" she whispered.

"So beautiful," said the boy, barely audible.

A quick glance confirmed what she heard in that breathless voice. Young Xani might be entirely focused on the task at hand; might be dedicated to the completion of the project begun so many years ago. 

But his body, his traitorous, adolescent body, was saying otherwise, was crying out its desire for another kind of completion.

The two of them moved forward to greet their house guests, and Yoni was hard put not to stare at the naked hunger in the eyes of the Master, as he looked from one to the other of them, obviously unable to decide which to look at first.

Xani, however, had no such problem. His eyes widened, and filled with a soft radiance as he gazed at Obi-Wan.

Yoni felt an unaccustomed tremor within her consciousness. Xani's shielding, so formidable against every other person in the galaxy, was almost non-existent for her. They had shared awareness since birth; it would be futile for him to attempt to shut her out now. No matter what he might say, Xani was in the grip of the first flush of infatuation, and, starved as everyone within this house was for simple affection, it could easily develop into something much stronger. Particularly since Kenobi was such a gentle, generous, luminous individual.

Therein lay the path to tragedy. For, in order to fulfill his purpose - the purpose for which he had been created - his first priority had to be to destroy the young man who now stirred him so dramatically.

Taking a deep breath, Yoni reached out through their bond, and doused her companion with the psychic equivalent of a bucket of ice water. _Frost up, Chum. I don't think he swings that way. And, even if he did, it's probably a really bad idea. Don't you think?_

Xani barely avoided shaking himself in response to her message, managing only an intense glare before Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon were standing directly before them.

Yoni, in deference to the boy's confusion, stepped forward first. "Welcome, Master Jinn," she said, and noticed immediately that her voice, the voice of she from whom Yoni had sprung, knifed through his soul. "We have been looking forward to meeting you. I am Yoni."

Obi-Wan deliberately stepped back to allow his Master sufficient room to kneel before the girl. He made no effort to touch her, but she was conscious of a trace of Force energy as it stroked her face gently. "Hello, Yoni," he managed. "You are very beautiful."

She regarded him solemnly. "It's all right, Master Jinn. You can say it. You won't offend me. I am very like her. Am I not?"

"Very," he whispered, reaching out finally to just touch her hair.

"I remember her," she said. "She was unforgettable."

"Yes. She was."

"Will you tell me how she died?"

And, for the first time, Xani's eyes left Obi-Wan's face and lifted to meet the midnight blue orbs of the Jedi Master. "Yes," he said in a strange, stricken voice, "please tell us how my mother died."

Obi-Wan watched and saw that phrase strike deep into his Master's heart. "I don't think . . ."

"No, Padawan," Qui-Gon said quickly. "It's all right. They have a right to know."

The apprentice turned to stare at his Master, and the intensity of his gaze drew Qui-Gon's attention like a magnet.

"Master, please stop and think. Do you really want to tell them this? Despite their appearance, and their abilities, they are not Jedi. They are not trained to deal with pain and loss."

The Master merely looked at his padawan, his affection glowing clearly in his eyes. "Perhaps, but that's not why you don't want me to tell them. You don't want me to have to relive it."

Obi-Wan smiled. "Guilty as charged, but I still think it should wait til later. And that I should be the one to tell them."

Qui-Gon merely reached out and adjusted the padawan braid. It was such a simple gesture, but it said more than mere words ever could.

"Later, then," said the Master finally. "I am quite hungry, and, unless my nose deceives me, I believe I detect the fragrance of nerf stew, with mushrooms."

Xani looked back at Obi-Wan, eyes dark with disenchantment. "Can't imagine how you figured that out." His voice dripped sarcasm, and he slowly lifted one hand, forefinger extended, thumb up, remaining fingers clinched. Swiftly, he jerked the index finger, and Obi-Wan, despite the strength of his shields, felt one tiny zing of energy snake through his defenses and nudge a pain center in his brain. Just enough to register its presence, but not enough to actually hurt.

Qui-Gon wasn't sure what had just happened, but he knew something had.

"Padawan?"

Obi-Wan stared at the boy, then, reluctantly, broke into a grin. _Cheeky little bastard's got more balls than sense._

Xani moved forward until he was standing right in front of the padawan, close enough to touch. "Have you?"

Obi-Wan almost yelped his surprise. No one had been able to intercept and understand the communication within his bond with his Master.

"Have I what?"

The cobalt eyes gleamed with mischief, as the boy stepped closer yet. "Got the balls?"

Obi-Wan smiled. He had been propositioned many, many times in his life, by every conceivable variety of lifeform. But he didn't think it had ever before been done so overtly, or with so little concern for social forms. He leaned forward and spoke softly, for the boy's hearing only. "One day, my young friend, someone is going to teach you some manners. But I don't think it will be me. Now, kindly put that libido away, before you cut yourself with it, and let's go to dinner."

But Xani wasn't - quite - finished. He looked up at the padawan, and the mischief twisted and morphed into something else; something dark. "Don't laugh at me," he almost hissed.

Obi-Wan's smile vanished, and he was careful to keep any trace of sympathy or patronage out of his voice. "I wouldn't dream of it. Now, can we please go down? I'm starving."

Yoni, breathing not quite steady as she watched Xani, praying that this would be one of those times when he simply stood back and accepted whatever might happen (and not one of those other times, when he didn't) stepped forward and took the Master's hand. "Come," she said. "We can continue our discussion at the table."

Together, Qui-Gon and the girl who was, in every way, a recreation of Tahl started down the stairs. Obi-Wan moved to follow, but was held up, just for a moment, by Xani. "I am not a child," said the boy bitterly. "You'd do well to remember that."

Obi-Wan merely nodded, and put his hand on the boy's shoulder as they started their descent.

Xani, momentarily, considered shrugging off that hand, resting so warmly against his shirt. But then, he decided that he might as well take whatever crumbs the padawan was willing to dispense. Until, of course, the opportunity arose to take more. Much more. To take all that he wanted. All that could be taken, because what would be left would hardly merit further attention.

He stole another look at the apprentice, and felt his breath catch in his throat as they moved beneath the huge carved chandelier above the grand staircase, and the light seemed to caress the padawan's features and pool lovingly around him.

Xani closed his eyes and was stricken with a sudden vision that was the complete antithesis of the one before him. Beauty, ruined and devastated and bleeding. Quickly, the boy opened his eyes wide and turned to the young man at his side. Almost against his will, he extended a trembling hand and touched that sculpted young face. Obi-Wan turned questioning eyes toward him and looked as if he were not sure how he should respond, but, in the end, he did not recoil, sensing something in the boy's Force presence that hinted of a need for reassurance.

Xani withdrew his hand abruptly. Obi-Wan continued to burn brightly in his consciousness. Touching intensified the sensation to near pain.

The Light was too bright, too painful. It saw too much, and demanded too much, and showed him too much. It eclipsed the darkness, the refuge of his soul. It threatened to consume all that was familiar and comfortable.

It clung to Obi-Wan Kenobi like a shroud.

And so it would prove to be, once the mission was complete.

A shroud, in which the padawan could bury his dream of becoming a Jedi. A shroud in which he could bury his heart.

 

***************** ******************* ****************

 

Obi-Wan had not realized how hungry he was until he approached the table and was transfixed by the tantalizing aromas of a variety of savory dishes, nerf stew primary among them.

There was little or no formality at the table, as the children, after seeing the adults seated, found places wherever they chose, and served themselves with noisy enthusiasm. 

Obi-Wan was not surprised to find Xani at his side when the dust settled. Determined to erase any lingering bitterness resulting from their earlier exchange, he asked the boy about the island, and was pleasantly surprised to discover that the child seemed to have a great curiosity for scientific endeavor. For minutes on end, the boy spoke about the natural history of the area, nearby geothermal energy sources, and the ecosystem of the island and the lake surrounding it.

"There's a double full moon tonight," said Xani, refilling his plate for the second time. "It's a perfect night for taking a look at some of the aquatic phenomena. Some are only visible in certain spectra. You'd enjoy it."

Obi-Wan nodded, liking the boy in spite of his best instincts. Earlier, he had been perfectly aware that much of what he had been allowed to see was fabricated or, at least, substantially embroidered. But now, what he was seeing seemed perfectly authentic. 

"Is that an invitation?" said the padawan.

Xani froze, fork half-way to his mouth, and simply stared at the apprentice for several long seconds. "Absolutely," he said finally, something pale and rare moving in his eyes, "if you're sure. We'll need to hike across the island, and it'll take a while."

Obi-Wan shrugged. "I seem to have nothing better to do."

"All right," said the boy, dark eyes now growing speculative.

The padawan turned to his left, and saw a question in his Master's eyes. "If you have no objection, Master," he said smoothly.

Qui-Gon was quiet for a moment, simply regarding his apprentice. "Are you sure, Padawan? He seems very determined to - um . ."

Obi-Wan smiled. "If I can't handle a thirteen-year-old boy, I better turn in my lightsaber, don't you think?"

"Still, you may be encouraging an inappropriate interest." 

"Master, there isn't that much difference in our ages. If he insists on getting the wrong idea, I'll simply tell him which way the wind blows. All right?"

The Master nodded. "No objections, Padawan."

"Me, too," said Yoni, and stifled a grin when she saw the irritation flare in Xani's eyes.

In the end, it was a group of six that set off from the rambling old house, armed with glow rods, insect repellant, and a bag of caroba chip cookies, courtesy of the cook.

Obi-Wan, on the advice of the children and Master Ge'lias, had foregone his Jedi robe, as the night was warm and humid. Within minutes, he had cause to be glad he had accepted their advice as his body was soon wet with perspiration combined with the heavy moisture in the air. Still, he jogged along easily, breathing normally, his Jedi training standing him in good stead. 

The children, of course, ran around like wild things, delighted by and delighting in the wonders of the night: tiny insects that glowed briefly gold then azure then bright red; flowers that separated from tree limbs high above and floated and spun on heavy currents of moist air; tiny, wingless avians that raced through knee-high grasses, issuing breathy whistles and low croons; long-legged arachnids that spun jewel-toned webs from tree to tree. 

The wonders of the night - any night, on any world.

When they approached their destination, the children grew quiet, and Xani stepped forward to take the lead. He seemed to know exactly where he was going, and the rest fell into step, single-file, behind him, with Obi-Wan bringing up the rear.

The padawan stopped for a moment to inspect a spray of blossoms that appeared to tremble, though the wind was still. Reaching into the Force, he realized that the tremor was due to a faint Force energy that permeated the tiny blooms, and caused a vague vibration. Stretching out even further, he found that he could just hear the faint chord of sound, resonating in the blossoms. Slowly, he touched one of the cup-shaped lavender blooms, and immediately felt the harmonics echo within him.

He laughed softly, the reverberation somehow tickling his Force sense.

It was enchanting.

Until, ahead of him, something dark and ugly swelled within the Force.

Obi-Wan staggered briefly. There was no sentient presence in what he sensed - no cognition. But there was terror, and slow, inexorable pain.

He leapt forward, searching the shadows ahead of him to find the source. The children had continued when he stopped, and his eyes could not distinguish them from the encroaching darkness. Finally, he closed his eyes, and allowed the Force to guide him. Thus he found them immediately, just a few meters away, beyond an ancient boreal tree that had fallen in on itself.

The glow rods in the children's hands emitted a pale bluish light, sufficient to allow travel in the darkness, but not very illuminating under present circumstances.

With a slightly impatient grunt (that would most certainly have drawn a less-than-thrilled comment from his Master) Obi-Wan drew and ignited his lightsaber.

The children were all standing together, Xani at their center, staring down into the shallow water at their feet. 

Obi-Wan moved forward, and knelt at the water's edge, using his saber as a light source, but careful to keep it angled away from the children.

Just inches into the water, a large tortoisal was submerged, a tiny stream of bubbles rising from its shell.

Obi-Wan reached out and lifted the shell from the water and set it on the sand at his feet. A brief Force inspection revealed no life in the creature within the shell.

"It's dead," said Xani, unconcerned.

Obi-Wan turned sharp blue-green eyes on the boy. "It's dead now. Seconds ago, it still lived."

The padawan rose and allowed a small measure of anger to flare in his eyes. "Why did you do that, Xani?"

"How do you know I did it? Maybe it was old and sick. You don't know anything."

Obi-Wan deactivated his lightsaber and put it back on his belt. "Because every action has a signature, Xani. Good and bad. Whatever you do, within the Force, leaves a mark, on the Force and on you. Would you like to know what kind of mark is on you right now?"

Xani moved forward, his face alive with belligerence. "Careful, Jedi boy. You don't control anything here."

"I'm not trying to control you, Xani," replied the Padawan. "I'm trying to make you understand that all living things are connected, within the Force. If you hurt one, you hurt all."

The boy smiled, and it was not pretty. "You want to talk about hurt, Obi-Wan? We can tell you about hurt. We can tell you about being locked away, and hidden like a dirty secret. We can tell you about being denied homes and families and normal lives. You think that doesn't hurt?"

"I'm sure it does. What do you want me to do about it?"

Xani laughed. "You? You think you can do anything for us? We don't need your help, Padawan. We can help ourselves."

"With cruelty and violence? Is that what this little demonstration was about?"

Xani nodded toward the tortoisel. "That? That wasn't the demonstration." He nodded slightly to the other children. " _This_ is the demonstration."

And, between one heartbeat and the next, Obi-Wan lost his connection to the Force. He gasped, and went to his knees, and Xani followed him down - up close and very personal.

"How does it feel, Jedi? Not so good, right? Your whole life you've had access to this magic, magic that most people never have. All these kids? They don't have it, except for me, of course. So I feed it to them. What you take for granted every day of your life, they can only get from me. Understand?"

"I understand," replied Obi-Wan. "But I still don't know what you want from me."

"Suppose," said the boy with an ugly smile, "I don't want anything from you, that you're willing to give." He raised his hand and pushed - very slightly - and Obi-Wan was frozen, suddenly unable to move. 

The ugly smile became a leer, as Xani leaned close and - very deliberately - dragged one feather-touch finger down across Obi-Wan's body. Obi-Wan closed his eyes, and, even without his Force sense, knew that he was a breath away from being raped and ravaged by a thirteen-year-old kid, if the kid so chose.

Fortunately, for this moment at least, he didn't choose.

"Or suppose," Xani continued, now laying his hand on the Padawan's chest, "I decide that I just don't like you very much. Or that it would all just be so much simpler if you just died. What do you think, dear Obi-Wan? What do you think would happen if I shut down your higher brain functions and scrambled all your brain's electrical signals? Do you think you'd survive?"

Obi-Wan's only response was the look of pity in his eyes.

"Answer me, damn you!"

"What do you want, Xani? You want me to acknowledge that you can kill me now? That you could do whatever you please with my body now? Fine. You can do whatever you like. You got me. Only, you don't, really. Do you? Because no matter what you do to my body, to my life, you still can't touch what's inside. And that's what you really want, isn't it? You don't beat a man, unless you can destroy what he is, inside. So do whatever you want, Kid. But you've won nothing."

Obi-Wan heard a hiss of indrawn breath - he thought it came from Yoni - as Xani leaned toward him. The boy put his hands together - just once - and seemed to squeeze, and Obi-Wan felt a huge, hot pain in his chest, as if he had been impaled by a molten blade.

Then it was gone, and he could move, and the Force rushed back to him, filling him, caressing him, loving him.

And Xani watched it all, saw it all, and sensed, in that one moment, that he would never achieve, in all his life, what the padawan was blessed to possess, every minute he lived.

"You'll regret this," he said softly. "You'll wish you had never come here." He raised his eyes, and there was no warmth, no humanity within them. "I will take everything you have, everything you are, and leave you with nothing. And then, I'll destroy what you leave behind."

Obi-Wan rose to his feet, still somewhat shaky, and looked down into that beautiful upturned face. Finally, he shook his head. "You may be right, Xani. But, in the end, you'll still lose. The only way to avoid that, is to break the pattern. Step outside, and remake your fate."

Xani merely smiled and walked away. The other children followed, except for Yoni, who stood gazing up at the twin moons.

Finally, she turned and looked up at the padawan, and he thought he saw tears well in her eyes. "I have some advice for you, Padawan Kenobi. I think you won't listen; maybe you can't listen. But you should."

"Yoni," he began, "you can. . . "

"Listen," she interrupted firmly. "Take your Master, and leave this place. And never come back here, or allow anyone else to come back here."

"You know we can't do that," he answered, reaching out to her.

But she moved away from him. "Why? Because you think we're 'innocent' children?" She laughed softly. "We aren't children, Padawan, and we're certainly not innocent."

"We won't abandon you," he insisted.

"Then you condemn yourself and your Master - and maybe all Jedi, everywhere. For that is the purpose for our existence, Padawan Kenobi. We live, to see that you die."

 

******************** ****************** ****************  
TBC


	9. Web of Days

Chapter 9: Web of Days

 

_For in the days we know not of_  
_Did fate begin_  
_Weaving the web of days that wove_  
_Your doom._

 

Algernon Charles Swinburne - _Faustine_

 

The twin moons rode low on the western horizon, as a tall shadow moved silently across the dim bedroom and stood motionless beside the narrow bed. Crystal-pure light, like pale, liquid silver, poured through the open window and collected around the figure sprawled face-down across the thin mattress.

Qui-Gon Jinn could only stare, stricken speechless, almost thoughtless, by the vision before him. How could he even contemplate giving up such a treasure? How could such a thought even occur to him?

He closed his eyes, and was immediately confronted with a different vision, of a different face. _And how,_ demanded a harsh, pitiless voice, _could it not?_

The padawan slept deeply, his face turned toward the window, luminous in the moonlight, one hand entwined with his apprentice braid. Thus had he slept since childhood, somehow comforted, even in his slumber, by the solid symbol of his status.

His torso was bare, as usual. Even in the midst of winter, Obi-Wan chafed under the constraints imposed by superfluous clothing and would have slept in the raw except for his Master's occasional reminder that a Jedi must always be prepared for any contingency, including having to run for his life, or to save someone else's, even in the middle of the night. Nevertheless, even with his Master's admonition, it had taken just such an occasion, with the apprentice being called upon to defend a rather winsome young duchess from an assassin's blade, while clad in little more than a scrap of imagination, that had finally convinced him. Thus the concession to convention in the form of abbreviated sleep pants.

Still, it had long been a standing joke between them, and the Master, in earlier years (better years?), had frequently referred to the padawan as his "young heathen". 

Qui-Gon allowed himself to sink to his knees, still lost in contemplation of his apprentice's face.

He had always recognized that Obi-Wan possessed an uncommon physical beauty; even had he been too obtuse to see it for himself, the commentary of friends and acquaintances would have quickly shown him the error of his ways. But he was much more entranced by what lay beneath the surface, the inner beauty that was no less appealing, if somewhat less obvious to the observer.

For as long as he could remember, or at least as long as this precious youth had been so intimately involved in his life, Obi-Wan's presence had been a melody in his heart, the background music against which everything else was played, creating a harmony where before, only discord had reigned. It lingered even now, despite the clamp he himself had placed on their bond - a sweet, lyrical descant that wove itself into his very being, while forming a perfect counterpoint to the harmony of the Force. It had soothed him, even in the depths of his greatest torment; it had led him back from the brink of despair.  


It had given back his soul.

His child of Light. More than anyone else he had ever known, Obi-Wan was truly a luminous being, without darkness, without shadow. 

Single-handedly, the padawan had prostrated himself on the altar of his Master's suffering and paid for the final reprieve, offering up his own blood, his own purity, in exchange for the gift of Qui-Gon's return to the land of the living. The fact that, in the end, the ultimate sacrifice had not been necessary in no way devalued the offering.

Obi-Wan stirred in the silver light, eyelids fluttering, rolled to his back and sighed softly. 

The Master continued to watch the boy sleep and, as the first glimmer of dawn threaded into the spangled canopy of night, a darkness seemed to reach out and test the Jedi's defenses. Qui-Gon continued his vigil, and didn't notice. 

 

******************* ********************* ***************

 

Eyes almost obsidian dark sparkled in the pre-dawn stillness, and Yoni felt a cold coil of fear solidify within her. She knew that look, had seen it too many times before not to know that it presaged nothing pleasant.

"What?" she asked softly, hoping, while knowing better, that she might succeed in distracting him.

"Lesson time," the boy whispered, lips curled in a venal smile.

"Xani . . ."

His eyes widened and regarded her with impatience. He did not like to be questioned. "Don't worry. I won't kill anybody. Not yet anyway. But they both need a lesson. And I need . . ." His smile grew colder, "an appetizer."

He closed his eyes, and felt delight swell within him as he saw through another's eyes. 

Oh, this could be so sweet. This could really be so sweet. He could do just anything he wanted, and no one would know. Except, of course, him. _He_ would know. But he wouldn't be able to prove anything. Still, perhaps a bit of caution was in order.

So, for now, one tiny sip would be enough, and teach a formidable lesson.

 

**************** ****************** ****************

 

Obi-Wan stirred again, and the gleam of blue-green eyes appeared beneath lowered lashes. Barely appeared, blinking rapidly. Loathe to accept the birth of another day.

Abruptly, the Padawan jerked awake. "Master? Is something wrong?"

"No, Padawan. I'm sorry I disturbed you."

The apprentice sat up and rearranged his pillows (he always slept with at least three, an indulgence Qui-Gon had long since learned to ignore) and pulled himself into a reclining position against the wall behind him. "Making sure I'm still here?" he asked, with a small smile.

"Something like that," replied Qui-Gon, trying to match the lightness of his padawan's tone.

"You slept poorly," Obi-Wan observed.

The Master started to deny it, but then realized the futility of it. "Yes. I slept poorly. Seems to be the norm, of late."

Obi-Wan stared up into his Master's face, trying to penetrate the mask that rode so easily on those familiar features. Finally, with a gesture that might have been seductive, if made by anyone else, he leaned forward and patted the mattress. "Sit here, Master."

Qui-Gon's eyes, always so sharp and perceptive, clouded fractionally as he looked at his apprentice, uncertainty plain on his face.

"Sit," Obi-Wan repeated, using just a nuance of Force enhancement.

Moving with a wariness appropriate for an approach to a poisonous asp, Qui-Gon allowed himself to perch on the edge of the bed.

The apprentice, with a grin that could only be described as roguish, reached out and turned the Master to face away from him, then scooted forward to kneel at Qui-Gon's back. Strong, young hands, hardened and honed by years of fiercely hard work and endless physical disciplines, began to knead away knots in muscles and stresses in tissue and sinew, while simultaneously infusing the tired body with warm bursts of Force energy. At first, the Master sat stiffly, somehow leery of relaxing into the rhythm of the boy's movements, but Obi-Wan was far too dexterous and skillful to resist.

Finally, with a soft groan, the Master slumped forward, allowing himself, at last, to revel in the comfort of his apprentice's expertise.

"Lie down," said the padawan, pushing gently, and, when his command was obeyed, he moved to straddle his mentor's legs, allowing him to apply his full strength - which was considerable - to deepening the massage. As he worked, he could feel the power of the Force pouring through him, channeling directly into his Master's body.

Qui-Gon twisted his head to meet the boy's eyes.

"By the gods, Padawan, if you ever tire of being a Jedi, you could make a fortune as a masseur."

Obi-Wan started to smile, and then he heard it. In his mind. Time flexed, and stopped, as a smug voice said, _Watch this._

From Obi-Wan's perspective, the moment seemed to stretch toward infinity. He found himself unable to move, unable to speak. He saw his Master inhale sharply, saw a gleam of fury rise in those familiar midnight eyes, saw muscles bunch in preparation for a violent reaction to something the padawan could not perceive.

What the Master saw - and heard - was something quite different.

It was something like a hiccup in time.

_"By the gods, Padawan, if you ever tire of being a Jedi, you could make a fortune as a masseur."_

_And Qui-Gon was suddenly enveloped in an eruption of raw emotion as his padawan - his calm, beautiful, virtuous padawan - threw himself forward and captured his Master's earlobe with perfect white teeth and whispered, "I can be much more than that, my Master. I can make you forget you are a Jedi. This body can be your comfort, your delight, everything you could ever want. Yours, to use as you like. But, of course, you'd have to keep me close to you. Wouldn't you?"_

_And the Master was abruptly, painfully, wretchedly aware of the perfection of that young body, now pressed so exquisitely along the length of his own._

_With a move so fast it could only be Force-enhanced, Qui-Gon twisted beneath the apprentice, and grabbed Obi-Wan's throat with a clenched fist. The padawan fell backwards to the floor, and the Master followed him down, never releasing his grip._

_The apprentice looked up into his Master's face and saw death in those sapphire eyes. He seemed to stand outside himself for a moment, wondering why he was about to die and realizing that he would probably never know, for he had no breath with which to even ask._

_"Why would you say such a thing to me?" snarled Qui-Gon, fingers closing even tighter. "Is that what you've learned from all I've taught you? To prostitute yourself to get your way?"_

The boy did not struggle, did not even attempt to call upon the Force to save himself. He simply looked up into his Master's face and allowed all his shielding to fall away. He had no idea what had happened to anger his mentor, but he had an excellent idea of where it had come from. The only way to demonstrate his innocence, of whatever outrageous behavior had been projected, was to let his Master see for himself. If he would. If he were not already too far gone, too deep in his outrage to be able to accept the invitation.

In the end, it was a near thing. Obi-Wan's eyes drifted closed, as his lips took on a bluish tint, and his hand, previous lifted in entreaty, fell to his chest.

As the Force presence that was the essence of his padawan began to fade, Qui-Gon Jinn blinked and saw what he had done.

It was a sensation much like waking from a horrible nightmare. But the pallor of Obi-Wan's face and the unnatural stillness of his body shouted that this was no dream.

"Oh, gods!" gasped the Master, now lifting his apprentice back to the bed, and directing huge bursts of healing energy into that porcelain countenance, while trying desperately to re-establish the training link. He refused to examine the huge, purple marks on the boy's throat. 

With inspiration born of desperation, he forced air into the boy's flaccid lungs, as he directed energy into stabilizing a heartbeat that had almost - almost - faded into nothingness.

_Obi-Wan, please. Please wake up. I'm so sorry. I know it was just desperation and fear talking. Please, wake up._

When copper-dusted eyelids flickered open, revealing flashes of luminous blue-green, the Master almost sobbed with relief.

The padawan, lids still only partially open, managed to look up at his Master, and project a single word.

_Why?_

Qui-Gon instantly recognized the sincerity in that single syllable, and, without asking or receiving permission, reached into the apprentice's mind and pulled out the memory of the last few minutes. And found . . . .

The Master gasped, and staggered to his feet, his face wreathed with anguish. 

Obi-Wan, still weak but compensating for his weakness with steely determination, followed right behind him, and braced his mentor with his hands.

"Whatever you saw, or heard," he said softly, "it wasn't real."

Qui-Gon, trembling almost uncontrollably, nodded. "And I almost killed you because of it."

The Padawan smiled. "Keyword: almost. I'm fine, Master."

But Qui-Gon was not in the mood to be consoled. "You're hardly fine, Padawan. I can't accept that I . . ."

Irrepressible, as always, Obi-Wan didn't bother to conceal his grin. "Whatever you thought I did, it must have really pissed you off."

The towering Jedi looked down into laughing blue-green eyes and was patently amazed that the boy was still capable of laughter, given the events of the last few days, not to mention the last few minutes. He drew a deep breath, and raised his hands to his apprentice's face. Gently, he lifted the chin and forced himself to examine the angry bruises on the boy's throat. Finally, he gazed fully into the brightness of those sea-change eyes.

"I will never give you up," he said softly. 

The padawan started to flash his trademark skeptical smile, but caught himself, and looked deep into his Master's eyes, and even deeper into his heart. And saw the truth written there. 

"Understood, Padawan? You belong with me, by my side, until the day you are knighted, and even beyond, if it be the will of the Force."

Obi-Wan's eyes, now, were huge and, for the first time in the Master's memory, filled with fear. Fear of hope. Fear of believing. Fear of reaching for the dream that he had lived for all his life.

The apprentice turned and went to the window. "And the boy?"

Qui-Gon closed his eyes and fought for composure. "He was responsible for what I almost did to you. Wasn't he?"

"Yes."

"Did he speak to you?"

The Padawan's smile was bitter. "Only to make sure I recognized him."

Qui-Gon's confusion showed in his eyes. "Why would he want you to know?"

"I don't know, Master," admitted the apprentice. "He's an enigma. I can't figure out why he does what he does, or what he'll do next."

The Master was silent for a time, lost in thought. "Master Ge'lias believes that they don't think as we do, that their motivations are beyond our understanding."

Obi-Wan studied his Master's face and almost winced from the weariness and residual pain he read there. "He may be right, Master. Nobody's ever really made a study of the emotional and spiritual results of cloning, and . . ."

"The boy is not a clone."

The Padawan ignored the flash of anger he heard in that statement. "No. But neither is he a naturally occurring individual. Xani was a genetic experiment, Master. A hybrid, if you will. Neither child nor clone, but something between the two extremes. And, therefore, as far as we know, completely unique. Meaning there is absolutely no way of predicting how he'll develop."

The Master turned to look at his apprentice. "His strength in the Force is staggering. I don't think it would be wise to ignore it. In the end, he must be trained, to control his savage proclivities, if for no other reason."

But the apprentice was shaking his head. "Master, you can't train a person into becoming someone they're not. Xani is . . . different. For one thing, I doubt he'd care for our training methods. Too restrictive, from his point of view."

"Nevertheless," said the Master, "I believe it must be done. We will return to Coruscant shortly, and he will go with us. Along with the cloned replicas of the three Jedi knights. A full investigation must be done, under the auspices of the Council. That's only possible within the Temple."

Obi-Wan drew a deep shaky breath, and faced his Master with new resolve. Qui-Gon acknowledged a momentary flash of regret that the days when his apprentice would accept the Master's conclusions without question were long past. "Master, last night, he showed me a little demonstration of his powers, and those of the other children as well."

"And?"

Blue-green eyes darkened and turned inwards. "Not to put too fine a point on it," he replied, "they scared the crap out of me. You know what a Force inhibitor feels like, of course. But, believe me, artificial Force suppression is nothing compared to what they can do. And Xani . . .". The Padawan impaled his Master with a laser-sharp stare. "Xani could kill with a single thought, Master. He showed me that."

Qui-Gon made a half-hearted and unsuccessful attempt to conceal how strongly that remark effected him. "Master Ge'lias believes that the children killed his wife," he said, almost absently, "although there's no evidence to support that."

"Killing with the mind," observed the padawan, "wouldn't leave much for forensic analysis."

Qui-Gon shook his head. "Still, a debt is owed. Their situation is not of their choosing. We can't just leave them here, and, without adequate training, they're a danger to everyone, including themselves."

"Master, these children are a danger anyway, whether they're trained or not. And maybe, even more so if they are. Their skills now - formidable as they may be - are raw and unrefined. How much more will they be able to do, if they're taught how to develop and control them?"

"Obi-Wan," snapped the Master, his patience wearing thin, "what are you proposing? We can't just ignore the problem and hope it will go away. We owe these children a chance at a normal life."

But Obi-Wan, despite his compassionate nature, as well as his awareness that his Master's forebearance was nearing its limit, was not convinced. "Do we now? Why do we owe them that? Master, the nature of these kids suggests that they were created to neutralize the power of the Force. To neutralize us. If we take them to the Temple, it's like handing a nuclear weapon to a toddler having a temper tantrum."

Qui-Gon shook his head. "You're exaggerating, Padawan. With adequate precautions . . ."

"I don't think there are any," snapped the apprentice. "And you're not listening to me. Kindly grant me the courtesy of remembering that I, at least, am not a child."

"No," retorted the Master, equally annoyed, "you just tend to act like one when you don't get your way."

Obi-Wan leapt to his feet, in the manner of a man who must move - or explode where he stands - and gave vent to an inarticulate growl of rage. "Is that how it's going to be then? Whenever I disagree with you, I'm acting like a child? Or maybe it's just my - what was it - 'pathetic envy' talking! You trained me, Master. You taught me how to evaluate and reach a conclusion. Is all that just gone now because the subject of the evaluation is too personal to you to grant me your trust?"

"Obi-Wan, the gifts that Xanatos . . . "

" _This_ is _not_ Xanatos." It was - almost - a shout.

The Master's eyes grew cold and dangerous. "You will not raise your voice to me, Young One. I am still your Master, and I have told you that I will not abandon you. What else do you want?"

The padawan stood rigid, trying to suppress the tremors that gripped him. It took a while to compose an answer. "I want," he said finally, breathlessly, "you to love me as much as you loved him. To want me with you, as much as you wanted him. To believe in me, as much as you believed in him."

"I do," replied the Master, barely audible.

Obi-Wan turned to gaze at his Master. "No. You don't. If you did, you'd hear me now. But you can't. Because all you can hear is the sound of his voice; all you can see is the look in his eyes. Simply because he appears to be who you want him to be. If it were just the boy, maybe I could still reach you. But it's not the boy, not really. It's the ghost within him that draws you."

"Obi-Wan, don't."

"Don't what?" There was a universe of loss and weariness in the boy's tone. "Don't say what we both know? Xanatos broke your heart, Master, but, in the process, he never gave it back. You never took it back. You let him keep it."

"I love you."

"Then leave the boy here."

"I can't do that."

The padawan was quiet for a moment; then he nodded. "As you wish, then, Master. With your permission, I promised Master Ge'lias I would help him summarize the records retrieved from the cloning facility. No one has ever done a detailed analysis on them, and he feels this should be done before any final decision is reached. I should get started."

With that, the apprentice grabbed his clothing and headed for the 'fresher.

"Obi-Wan." 

The boy stopped, but did not turn.

The silence seemed to stretch and thicken, until Obi-Wan heaved a huge sigh. "It's all right, Master. That's what you're waiting for, isn't it? For me to say it's all right. To ease your conscience. Very well, then. It's all right. I release you from whatever pledge you might have made in the emotional duress of the moment."

But then he did turn to look over his shoulder. "Nevertheless, I will still not just fade away and clear the path for my replacement. If you want him badly enough, you're going to have to stand up and say so. That way, there's no chance of anyone misunderstanding anything. All right?"

He didn't wait for an answer, stepping into the 'fresher and closing the door.

Behind him, the towering Jedi Master turned to face the growing brightness of morning, revealed now as streaks of coral and saffron daubing the night sky with brilliance. Only the disinterested gleam of distant stars bore silent witness to the tears welling in sapphire eyes. The bond was almost lifeless now, expiring, perhaps, as much from exhaustion as anything else.

The link suddenly felt old - and worn out.

 

**************** ********************** ****************

 

Obi-Wan sat at the terminal in the huge, lofty chamber designated as a library, and rubbed weary eyes. 

He had not been prepared for the sheer volume of information available concerning the cloning research performed prior to the implementation of the program, not to mention the huge mountain of data covering the continuing evaluation of the development of the children.

He could spend months poring over the data and barely scratch the surface. Which was probably why no one had ever done it.

Master Ge-lias' wife had probably reviewed and studied more of it than anyone else ever had; she had, after all, had years in which to access it.

But if she had reached any substantive conclusions, or come across any critical information, she had either failed to make note of it, or no one had yet accessed the necessary files. Which was entirely possible, since the terminal was literally bursting with datafiles. 

The padawan pushed away from the desk and turned to gaze out into the brilliant sunlight of early afternoon. He had been at it for hours and was experiencing bitter droughts of frustration.

The answers he sought were here, he thought. He felt it. Answers that might - just maybe - prove to be critically important. Just as he believed these children and the final decision about their future were critically important. Not just for himself and his relationship with his Master. It went much further than that. He was sure of it. He just didn't have a clue how to find what he needed.

A flash of brilliant scarlet framed against a patch of sky caught his eye, and he rose and moved to the window. 

A gently rolling meadow stretched away toward the lake, fronting on a terrace that lay before the library's tall windows. A soft breeze meandered through the tall grasses, setting tiny, star-shaped yellow blossoms dancing with the kiss of the air current. Strolling along a path that bisected the expanse, a tall, imposing figure, clad in Jedi beige and brown, walked abreast of two children - boy and girl, both with the classic coltish awkwardness of those new to the teen years. The flash of scarlet proved to be a garish, shapeless shirt clinging loosely to the boy's shoulders; the girl was clad more sedately, in deep green. The pace was decidedly leisurely, as both the children seemed more interested in regarding the face of the tall Jedi than in watching where they were going.

Obi-Wan suppressed a sigh. Even from this distance, he could see the animation and keen interest in his Master's face. 

A quickening had begun. Deeper, richer, and more intense than the one he himself had managed to engender just recently.

As he moved back to the terminal, he heard a soft, not-quite-furtive rustle somewhere in the shadows of the great chamber. "Who's there?" he asked quickly, not much in the mood for tricks or games.

A very small form detached itself from the gloom in the center of the plethora of bookshelves scattered around the room. "I'm Oomy," said a tiny voice.

Obi-Wan peered into the shadows, barely able to discern any features, as the child seemed determined to remain concealed.

"Well, hello, Oomy," he said softly. "Can I help you with something?"

"No." Slightly sing-song. More noooo-ooo-ooo, than just no.

"Do you need to tell me something?"

"Maybe." Again with the doppler shift inflection.

With a bit of Force enhancement, the padawan was finally able to make out a bit more about his timid visitor, enough, at least, to determine that this was an extremely grimy, extremely small, extremely fidgety little girl.

"Want to come closer?"

"You pretty," she said suddenly, advancing only very slightly.

"Thank you, Oomy. So are you."

In the classic manner of children everywhere, the girl began to ramble around in the shadows, her movements containing elements of primitive dance, blended with childish exuberance. Obi-Wan was content to watch and wait.

At last, after a very circuitous course, the child arrived in his general vicinity.

Up close, he discovered that she really was pretty. More than that. Assuming that the grime so painfully obvious on her person would wash away, she was pretty much spectacular. So much so that Obi-Wan was forced to rescind his prior observation that young Xani was the most beautiful child he'd ever seen. And it occurred to him suddenly to wonder why he hadn't seen this one before.

He extended his senses through the Force, and the realization was immediate. Wherever this child came from, she was not like the others here in this place. This was no clone.

The little girl, who was as small as a five-year-old but somehow seemed older, came to stand beside Obi-Wan and look up at the viewscreen with bright, pearly gray eyes.

She then turned and regarded him with great solemnity. "You real pretty," she said softly, and extended one grimy hand to touch his padawan braid.

He smiled, and, of course, in the process confirmed her observation. "Thank you, Oomy. How can I help you?"

"I," she said firmly, "help you."

"Will you now?" he asked, careful not to condescend. "How will you do that?"

She raised her forefinger and extended it toward the terminal controls. He had an immediate impulse to stop her, but, finally, didn't. Something - the Force, perhaps - stayed his hand.

Quickly, she touched a file icon he had not noticed previously, and the viewscreen flared with bright squares of color. It was a graphic representation of an algorithm he did not recognize.

He glanced at the child. "Lovely, Oomy, but I think I need a code to get in there."

She nodded, and tapped a thumb against her sternum. "Oomy," she echoed.

"Yes. I know, but I . . ."

And again, the thumb tapped. "Oomy," she repeated.

Realization dawned quickly. With a frisson of anticipation racing up his spine, the padawan leaned forward and tapped in the name.

And the file opened - and opened - and opened. And Obi-Wan was dumbstruck.

Abruptly, the apprentice turned and hugged the little girl. "You," he said with that trademark brilliant smile, "are a genuis."

She smiled. "Ice cream?"

He laughed. "Is that your fee? Ice cream? Then you shall have all the ice cream you can eat, Little One. Give me a minute."

He once more looked at the viewscreen, and initiated a sequence to download the file into a series of datachips. No way was he going to take a chance on losing this. Oomy was the key, in more ways than one.

 

****************** ******************* ******************

 

Master ru Caeri seemed less than enthusiastic when Obi-Wan requested his presence in the library, but he responded with alacrity, nevertheless.

When they entered, the Master surprised the apprentice somewhat by closing and locking the massive double doors of the chamber as they entered.

He was half way across the room when he spied the information still scrolling on the viewscreen, and paused, a trembling hand moving to trace his forehead.

"So you've found it," he said gently. "I knew someone would eventually, but you surprise me, Young Kenobi. I thought it would take longer."

"It would've," replied Obi-Wan, "if not for Oomy."

"Ah, yes. Oomy. Of course. I should have known."

Obi-Wan settled himself at the console while the Master opted to stand before the tall windows. "Have you studied the data yet?" ru Caeri asked.

The apprentice smiled. "I only just found it, and the file is huge. I suspect there'll be Jedi scholars studying this file for generations."

"Quite likely," agreed the Master. "The data is undoubtedly very valuable."

"You knew about this file?"

"Oh, yes. I knew it existed. I did not, however, know where it was, or how to access it, or even what it contains."

Obi-Wan was obviously confused. "Excuse me, Master," he said, "but how is that possible? I assume it was your wife who . ."

"Yes," said the Master, and Obi-Wan was stricken by the depth of despair he suddenly sensed in the aged Jedi. "My wife. We were together for almost one hundred cycles." He turned and regarded Obi-Wan with a fond smile. "That's more than four of your lifetimes, Little One. A very long time."

The Padawan had the grace to recognize his blunder. "I'm sorry, Master. To speak so casually of your loss. Please accept my condolences for your sorrow."

Ru Caeri's eyes softened. "You live up to your reputation, Child. It is easy to see why you are loved so dearly." He then appeared to shake himself, and put aside his emotional maundering. "But that doesn't answer your question, does it? The answer is fairly simple. I didn't know where the file was, or how to access it, because my wife compiled it, and then hid it away. She said it was to protect me. Given the manner of her death, I believe she was correct."

"My Master told me that you believe the children killed her."

He turned back to the window. "It's much more than belief, Young One. It approaches certainty."

"Why would they do that?"

"I can only speculate, you understand." A tremor in his voice revealed that this was a lot harder than he was willing to acknowledge. "This file is probably part of the answer, and your discovery of it does not bode well for you. But there's more. Have you had occasion to test Xani's shielding, Young Kenobi?"

"I have, and it's quite remarkable."

Ru Caeri nodded. "Yes. It is. My wife helped him develop it, and she was the only one, so far as I know, who could penetrate it at will. Except, of course, for Yoni. He and Yoni are, truly, almost one mind in two bodies."

"More so than with the others?"

The Master nodded. "They consider themselves siblings, and, in the somewhat convoluted reality of cloning, perhaps they are."

"And Oomy?"

Master Ge'lias smiled. "Oomy is the oddity, the anomaly. The piece that doesn't fit."

"Meaning?"

"You've noticed, no doubt, that she's not a clone?"

"Yes."

The Master turned, and looked directly at Obi-Wan, eyes filled with foreboding. "But there's the rub, Little One. She is."

"But there's no . . ."

"Distortion in the Force? No. There's not."

"How is that possible?"

"She was the last. In the final developmental stage when the lab was exposed. I don't know the particulars, Obi-Wan. I'm neither a scientist nor a healer. I only know what my wife told me. Oomy is proof that they perfected the process."

"But she's not like the others," Obi-Wan said quickly. "Her Force signature is not only not distorted; it's very warm and positive. Full of light."

Ru Caeri smiled. "Fate's little joke, I think. Imagine their reaction if they had been around long enough to learn that their perfect clone - indistinguishable from any other child - turned out to be a being of perfect light."

"Why is she so small?" asked the Padawan.

The Master shrugged. "I don't really know, except that my wife remarked that her developmental schedule seemed to differ from the norm. Even her gestation was considerably longer than normal. I believe this is all inter-connected with the perfection of the cloning process, but that is only my own assumption. She may simply be small by nature. But she has grown and progressed very slowly, or so it seems to me."

Obi-Wan turned to watch the data screen, still flashing with massive amounts of information. "What's in the file?" he asked. "Do you know?"

"The results of my wife's research," replied the Master, "and, quite possibly, the motive for her murder. She was convinced that these children were created for a specific purpose, and that the purpose would have been protected with multiple redundancy. She didn't believe it would simply end, merely because the project was interrupted."

Obi-Wan sat down at the terminal, and simply observed the flow of data for several moments, his eyes picking out key phrases and catchwords. "Do you know what the purpose is?"

The Master moved to the window and gazed out toward the meadow, out to where a tall Jedi Master knelt to face two smaller figures, his face rapt, almost spellbound. "I know what she believed it to be."

Obi-Wan drew a deep breath. "The destruction of the Jedi."

If the Master was surprised by the youth's perception, he gave no indication of it. "Yes. The Jedi, in general, and Qui-Gon Jinn, specifically."

"Xanatos," breathed the Padawan.

"Without doubt. You do know the identity of the chief researcher?"

Obi-Wan nodded. "N'vell Aji, Xanatos' sister."

"Despite a dozen reports of her death, all suspiciously ambiguous and lacking detail, the truth is that she remains at large, with the considerable wealth of her late brother available to her. My wife was certain that this project is not yet concluded."

"But how would she reach them? They've been secluded since infancy."

The Master gestured toward the data screen. "Have they? You've tested his shields. Have you also tested his telepathic range?"

Obi-Wan smiled. "Let's just say he's tested mine. But that's room-to-room. Hardly the same as planet-to-planet. In telepathy, distance does matter."

Ru Caeri smiled. "To us, it does. But you might be interested to find that his strength in this area only surfaced recently. With the onset of puberty, more or less. I'm certainly no biologist, but even I know that the human body, as adolescence approaches, undergoes tremendous physical, chemical, and glandular changes. What if, in this case, something else was triggered by that raging tide of hormones? Some genetically manipulated marker, activated by some preset biological trigger." His eyes, though trained on the fields beyond the window, seemed focused much farther away - in a dark arena only he could discern. "For all we know, he may have the ability to speak to the gods, much less a planet mere light years away."

Obi-Wan was still scanning data and digesting a sampling of diverse facts. "Any other changes, at puberty, I mean? Beyond the obvious."

The Master actually chuckled. "In point of fact, the 'obvious' changes one would expect have not, in fact, been so obvious. Much to his chagrin. You'll have noticed that the voice is still soft, almost shrill; he's developed neither facial nor body hair; and other changes, to his extreme displeasure, have also been slow to develop. And, yes, there has been one other rather remarkable change. He has become colder - crueler - and more calculating. More self-possessed; more demanding; less patient. Even Yoni occasionally spurs his wrath. Until recently, that would have been unthinkable."

Obi-Wan frowned. "This all sounds pretty implausible."

Ru Caeri smiled. "As, no doubt, other scientific advances did, when first theorized. I may be entirely wrong, but do we know, for sure, that what I'm suggesting is impossible? My wife did not think so, and she was a scientist."

Impatiently, with staccato movements far removed from his customary fluid grace, the padawan rose and went to the window, and stood gazing down at the tableau before him. Qui-Gon was still engaged in easy conversation with the two children, and, as Obi-Wan watched, the Master reached out and smoothed the boy's hair behind his ear, exactly as if he were rearranging a padawan braid. The apprentice drew a quick, sharp breath, and tried not to feel the darting twist of pain in his heart.

Master ru Caeri said nothing, but only because there was nothing he could say that would do any good. He recognized the gesture, as surely as Obi-Wan did, and understood its meaning. There was simply no comfort he could offer. What did one say, after all, to a padawan forced to watch the seduction of his Master, by his own replacement?

 

***************** ******************* ******************

 

The intricate mosaic stones of the west terrace were still warm from the sun's last kiss of the day when Obi-Wan settled himself on the top step to watch the final plunge of the great fiery orb into the oblivion of the horizon. He flexed his shoulders cautiously, feeling kinks where he had not previously known kinks were possible, and promised himself a long, hot soak in something. Just as soon as he summoned up the energy to find something to soak in.

He had finished the transfer of all the data into the portable datachips, and secured the completed chips in a diplomatic courier's attache. It would open now only to his DNA marker. He had reviewed enough data to have formulated a theory, but he knew that he lacked sufficient fundamental knowledge in genetic sciences to make a final judgment. The material in the file would be the subject of intense study, probably for many years to come.

He found that his curiosity - scientific and intellectual - was piqued, but mostly only so far as the data affected him and the Jedi directly. It was not a field of study that fired his passion.

He looked up into the panoply of night springing into existence above him, and wondered if there was anything that could fire his passions any more. He almost shied away from admitting it, but he was not one to delude himself; there was a curious emptiness within him now, a dead zone that seemed to absorb anything that approached it, and return nothing.

Suddenly, to his amazement, as he had sensed no presence nearby, a small weight climbed into his lap.

"Pretty," said the sweet little voice, as a grimy finger pointed skyward.

He readjusted his position to allow the little girl to lean back against his chest.

"Yes, Oomy. It's very pretty. Just like you."

Huge, rain gray eyes, fringed with incredibly long, thick black lashes, blinked at him. "Obi pretty."

He grinned. "You're really good for my ego, Kiddo. You know that?"

She placed both hands against his face, and he ignored a nerdy little voice within him that wanted to know what kind of crud it was that was all over those hands. "You don't yell," she said, leaning forward to put her face against his.

He swallowed abruptly, as his heart seemed to lurch. How could anybody yell at this perfect little vision of loveliness, no matter how grimy she might be?

He smoothed her hair - fine and lustrous - back from a perfectly oval face, and paused as he noted a discoloration on her forehead. A discoloration that was not grime; a bruise, dark and ugly.

"Oomy," he said softly, "how did this happen?"

"Rock."

He ducked his head to capture her eyes. "Did you fall and hit your head?"

"No."

"Did someone . . ."

"No more talk," she said abruptly, turning her face up toward the sky. "Just watch."

"Oomy . . "

"No talk," she repeated, more insistently, and pursed her lips in a very slight, entirely charming pout. "Just watch."

He sighed. She had a most effective method of avoiding answers she preferred not to give.

Still, he was pretty sure he knew what - or rather who - had caused the bruise. And he knew, beyond all doubt, that something was building around them, something that would eventually reach its own version of critical mass, generating its own demise in spectacular fashion. He knew it was coming; he just wished that his supposedly infinite strength in the Unifying Force had not decided suddenly to just abandon him. For one of very few times in his life, Obi-Wan had absolutely no idea what lay directly in his path. Not that he ever knew details; it didn't work that way. But this time, he was as Force blind as anyone else, and he didn't like it one damned bit.

"My Obi," said the little girl happily, wrapping chubby arms around his neck, insisting that he join her in watching the awakening of the heavens above them.

As the sun slipped below the horizon, a flicker of motion in the deepening shadows behind them was the only indication of the presence of watchful eyes, greedy eyes; eyes that smoldered with resentment, aimed both at a tiny child who had never once succumbed to efforts to charm and entice her into the same hero worship mode that all the other children entered so easily and a Jedi who seemed to generate it without effort.

Xani stood and watched for some time, before fading into the night. 

Tonight he would learn much, if he listened carefully, and observed silently.

His time was at hand; he must be ready to insure that nothing and no one interfered with his destiny.

 

******************* ****************** ******************

 

The salon was elegant in the extreme, lavished with every possible variety of luxury, the best that money and exquisite taste could buy. Even in almost complete darkness, there was an ambient luster lingering in the dimness, a remnant of radiance left over from rose-tinted twilight. Silken upholsteries and draperies, deep plush carpets, the gleam of crystal and deep-buffed wood, the flicker of candlelight, the fragrance of creamy blossoms, mingled with the aroma of spiced incense. The overall effect was startlingly beautiful and intensely sensual. This was the environment of a being intent on pleasure of every sensual variety.

A huge moon, close enough to count craters, just clearing the eastern horizon, provided the only illumination, other than the scented candles. The beat of distant breakers pounding against sweeping reaches of granite wove its rhythm into the fabric of darkness.

The figure that reclined on a deep padded lounge just within the terrace doors of the residence was as sensual and elegant as the chamber. Tumbled locks of raven black; sapphire eyes, fringed with thick, inky lashes; lips tinted the color of crushed salja berries; skin like the petals of an Alderaanian rose - cream just blushed with pink. Slender throat, slender body, long, lovely legs - all draped in layers of vermilion silk.

Perfect lips sipped at a gem-encrusted goblet and relished the tart bite of the wine on a perfectly educated palate.

"Well?" said a voice from a tall shadow near the doorway. The voice was hoarse and threaded with impatience and not at all in keeping with the elegance of the surroundings.

The perfect mouth issued a perfect sigh. "Patience, Mali. We've waited all these years. Would you have me ruin it now, by being too hasty?"

"But the boy's ready."

"Indeed, but the stage must be perfectly set. The time is near, but the place is not yet right."

Maleonaka Sirvik paced. "But he will take them to the Temple. Won't he?"

There was a brief silence. "The only question is the padawan. He is not so easily deflected as we had hoped. Still, the Master will make the final determination. And Qui-Gon, dear predictable Qui-Gon, will be true to his nature - as always."

"The boy is becoming demanding."

There was a slow, sultry chuckle. "He's feeling his hormones. He wants the apprentice. For his own. A reward, he says, for his loyalty."

"And will you . . ."

"No." For just a fragment of a second, the cool, elegant tone fractured, revealing something decidedly uncool and inelegant beneath it. "The padawan is not negotiable."

Sirvik peered toward the pale face, but could discern little in the semi-darkness. Still, he had heard it in the wavering voice.

"You want him for yourself."

"Why shouldn't I? Losing the apprentice will only be the beginning of the Master's suffering. How much more agonizing will it be when he learns that his precious padawan is warming my bed?"

But Sirvik heard more in the tone than had been intended. "Very logical, my dear," he said drily. "And, of course, it matters not in the least that he's a quite delectable young specimen."

But, if he'd expected his needle to generate anger, he was disappointed. The only response was another laugh, and a flash of those star-kissed eyes.

_Oh, yes, the Master would pay - endlessly, painfully, completely. But the young one? His would be a different kind of payment, for which such a strong young body was uniquely suited._

_He would be owned - body, mind, and soul - and used accordingly. Until he was used up._

Perfect lips parted, and a quick intake of breath caressed perfect teeth.

He had been watched, of course, for years. And had become a source of endless fascination and endless delight. The fantasies had developed over a long period of time. But it was almost a certainty that the fantasies would pale in comparison to the real thing. To take the body of a young Jedi, who moved with the exquisite grace of a great catling, and possess it entirely, while slowly and inexorably breaking that magnificent spirit; if there were a better definition of bliss, it had never been found. Perfection. That was what the padawan symbolized. And perfection - as always - sought perfection.

But ultimately, there could only be one true perfection. The ultimate victor, who would slowly destroy anyone else who came too close.

A pity, really. Red lips sighed, then curled in a smile. But, oh, my, the delicious sensations of the process. The delight in demolishing the walls he built around himself and ravishing what lay within.

So close now, and the waiting had become almost unbearable.

************** ********************* *****************

tbc


	10. Hopes Fading

Chapter 10: Hopes Fading

Padawan Ciara Barosse shivered despite the enveloping warmth of her Jedi robe, and wished, for about the fiftieth time, that she had listened to that annoying little inner voice which had warned her to ignore the message she had found on her comm unit. If she had obeyed that voice, she would not now be huddled here in this really unpleasant place, with goose-pebbled flesh and frozen toes.

Ciara was a native of Dur'fu, born of that desert world eternally poised on the edge of the Kimadrian Drift, and she was genetically predisposed to handle almost every climatic condition well, except cold.

Yet even with that biological imperative, she had learned to tolerate and, once in a while, even enjoy the more pristine aspects of winter - lovely, delicate images of ice tracery and drifting snow flakes. None of that, however, was even remotely connected to where she stood now.

Coruscant. Customs warehouses. Dark. Bleak. Echoing. Deserted. Damp. Creepy. And, above all, cold.

Why, in the name of the Dur'fulani fertility gods, had the climate control engineers extended the artificially generated winter season? Festival was over; no one wanted or needed more frozen precipitation.

The wind howled like a demented beast, whirling around her, attempting to pluck her fluttering cloak from her fingers, and she thought her nose and cheeks were in imminent danger of frostbite.

It was a plot; that's what it was. And an image of laughing blue-green eyes rose in her mind, spurring her to new heights of annoyance and indignation. If she ever found out that he had anything to do with stranding her in this - this - this _mess_ , he would be one drawn-and-quartered little padawan.

And, worst of all, she hadn't a clue what she was doing here. Not really. 

"You owe me big time, Kenobi," she hissed through chattering teeth. "If I don't just kill you first, and think later. I don't know why I let myself get hooked into these things."

"Maybe," said a disembodied voice from behind her, "because you find him as irresistible as everyone else does."

With some difficulty, she managed to camouflage her failure to detect the man's presence prior to his announcement. She was so cold and so bitterly annoyed that she almost spat her response. "Irresistible? Forget it. I've seen him in - and out of - his underwear, and he's not nearly so impressive in his skivvies."

The laugh she received in return was rich, almost sultry. "Then, perhaps, it's because he trusts you. Implicitly."

She pulled her robe tighter around her. "Yeah? Well, maybe. But I don't think I want to debate it while my toes freeze solid and stick to the floor. Can we just get this - whatever 'this' may be - over and done with?"

A figure, tall and heavily cloaked, emerged from the shadows, a deep hood obscuring the face.

"Hey," said the padawan, "I don't like not knowing who I'm dealing with."

Again, that throaty chuckle. "Believe me, my young friend, this camouflage benefits you more than me. It's a case of the less you know, the better."

"Then what," she said sarcastically, "am I doing here?"

The voice, deep, masculine, and cultured, took on a very faint tone of apology. "Unfortunately, some things are so important, risks must be taken."

One gloved hand extended from the voluminous cloak, holding a datapouch. "This must be put into young Kenobi's hands. No one else's. And, I'm sorry but I must ask, please make no attempt to retrieve the data yourself. It's encrypted for his voice print only."

Ciara leant forward and grasped the pouch, while her free hand flexed briefly, and a sudden rush of wind pulled the hood away from the face of her less than forthcoming counterpart.

Dark eyes, not nearly as angry as they might have been, regarded her calmly. "Satisfied?"

The padawan held her head high, unembarrassed. "Not entirely. Now I want to know why I'm performing courier duty between a Jedi padawan and a criminal with a price on his head."

He smiled. "You have no reason to trust me, of course, but I assume you do trust your young colleague."

"That goes without saying."

The smile warmed those incredible eyes. "Would he ask you to do something that would dishonor you?"

Now she smiled, but it did not entirely conceal a flare of anger in her face. "He'd know better. Do you?"

The tall human - brawnier and bigger than Obi-Wan, but possessing the same feline grace - regarded her solemnly. "He trusted you to come here in his place and to safeguard what has been given to you. At great cost, I might add. If he trusts you to that degree, then I must accept his judgment."

Her eyes narrowed. "Given your rather 'colorful' reputation, I can only conclude that you're the petitioner here, and he's doing you a huge favor. Otherwise, I doubt you'd trust anybody."

"Very good," he said warmly. "Our mutual acquaintance is a lucky pup, to have such a friend. You will see that he gets this - intact - and as quickly as possible, won't you?"

She tucked the pouch into the secure pocket of her robe. "I will, but don't make the mistake of thinking I'm doing this for you. He asked, and he wouldn't if it weren't important. This has nothing to do with you. I can't imagine how you managed to get him involved in whatever this is. But Obi doesn't do things half-way, so he must think he has a good reason."

She stared up - and up - into dark eyes that almost seemed to be laughing at her. "He'll get it, but you might want to keep something in mind. Consorting with you, for whatever reason, would be enough, in some circles, to get him in deep trouble. Whatever the risk to you, his may be greater."

The soft chuckle was definitely laced with sardonic wit, this time. "Unlikely, my friend, since no one would dare try to hang a Jedi padawan. But that's beside the point, isn't it? Your motives are entirely your business. But know this: there are lives at stake here. Many lives, innocent lives. Maybe even an entire civilization."

She almost laughed; almost scoffed at his assertion. But, suddenly, she felt a shiver in the Force, a tug in her consciousness that seemed to encircle her like an energy barrier.

He smiled and nodded. "Yes, Little One. I keep my promises, and I promised him there would be no risk to you. Hopefully, you will not see them, but they will be around you - watching, ready - until you are safe within the Temple, once more."

Now she was getting really annoyed. "Hey, if you could arrange all this, just to escort me around safely, why couldn't you just send a courier to the Temple? You obviously had me watched, knew when I was coming. That suggests you have a contact actually in the Temple. So. . . ."

"If I have contacts there," he interrupted, not quite so patient now, "it's more than likely that others do as well. Remember that, Girl. No one must know about this. If anyone does, if anyone learns what you carry, lives will be lost. You're a Jedi, a senior padawan. Your young friend obviously believes you're smart enough to behave accordingly. I have to trust that he's right. And, by the way, lovely as you most certainly are - he was quite right about that - don't flatter yourself. It's the data you carry that warrants our concern." A trace of humor seemed to bleed into his tone. "That, and the fact that I have no desire to take on one very angry, very dangerous Jedi padawan."

Something in her posture caused him to pause, then grin widely. "Or two of them, for that matter."

She nodded, and started to turn away; this meeting was over. But she paused suddenly and looked back toward the shadows. "He really said that?"

The voice came from farther away than she'd expected. Whatever this walking bounty might be, he was swift on his feet. "Said what?"

She squared her shoulders. "Never mind," she called, turning to go.

The chuckle, despite being at her expense, was neither patonizing nor condescending. "He certainly did."

Lovely? she thought. Obi-Wan had called her lovely?

Once more, that image of red-gold hair surrounding a face of pale-gold porcelain, centered with sea-change eyes, rose in her mind, and she sighed. One day, maybe, if she aged very gracefully - and he did not - she might just live long enough to be considered as "lovely" as he was. But she doubted it. Not that she wasn't exceptionally pretty. Even by Dur'furlani standards, she was quite exquisite; but Obi-Wan was - well - he was just Obi-Wan. Exceptional. Unique. 

Ciara allowed herself a small, self-satisfied smile. Not for the first time, she was pleased with the fact that what was between herself and Master Jinn's padawan was based entirely on mutual respect and genuine liking; there was nothing sexual or romantic in it. She wasn't entirely sure how she knew it, but she did know, somehow, that anyone unlucky enough to fall in love with Obi-Wan Kenobi was destined to bitter disappointment in life; he would never be owned by or totally devoted to any one person, unless it was his Master, in the way of Master/Padawan bonding. Qui-Gon Jinn would be the only family her young friend would ever know, except for a few companions like herself, sisters and brothers of the heart. Beyond that, only the gods knew what he might want, in his deepest consciousness.

He had spoken of his most basic desires only once, in passing. He had not confessed them, not even in the most general terms; he had simply remarked that the Force had shown him, long ago, that certain things, no matter how desirable, were never meant to be.

She had not questioned his meaning; she had seen the flash of desolation in his eyes and decided then that she really didn't want to know.

Life, she thought, would not be kind to her friend - the price, perhaps, for such perfection. For all things, there must be balance, she understood, and one so favored by the gods must surely be assessed some terrible obligation to compensate for such profligate gifts. Maybe, in some perverse way, it was even fair. What was not fair, she observed with a sigh, was that his strength in the Unifying Force allowed him to see great sweeping vistas of the path before him. Thus, he would not only be obligated to honor any obligation assessed against him, but to see it from afar as it approached, coloring and darkening whatever joy he might manage to take from whatever time he was granted before the presentation of that final accounting.

Ciara sighed deeply, feeling her melancholy even more sharply than the cold around her. She didn't often dwell on such morbid thoughts; she preferred the memories of the many hours of laughter and joy she had shared with her fellow apprentice. Memories they both treasured and revisited often and clung to, against the distant threat of darkness.

When she reached the Temple gates, she thought she had never seen anything so beautiful.

Dark, sardonic eyes read her body language easily. A Jedi padawan she certainly was, with all the courage and confidence and bright spirit that such a status entailed. But even the bravest among them was still occasionally vulnerable to lapses of sentient frailty, sprung, no doubt, from some deep well of racial memory.

Arain Fer'mia smiled as the Temple reached out for her, just as surely as she reached for it.

Fer'mia had very little Force sensitivity, but he had a great deal of plain old common sense, along with a tiny little trace of whimsy, that sometimes allowed him to see beyond the arena of the trivial and mundane.

He turned away to rejoin the shadows of the night, easy in his mind. His sister trusted young Kenobi implicitly; Arain wasn't - yet - quite so convinced, but he had no such qualms about Ciara. Either she had not yet learned to conceal herself beneath veneers of Jedi shielding, or she had simply not bothered to do so in his presence; thus she had projected an almost visible aura of wholesome honesty and decency. He knew immediately why Kenobi believed in her, and why he had been so explicit in his description of what he would do to anyone who allowed any harm to come to her.

Arain moved off into the darkness, wondering, vaguely, if such a thing were really possible, using only a lightsaber and a paring knife.

 

*************** **************** *******************

 

Obi-Wan sat in the darkened library, weariness written in every line of his body.

And yet, his eyes, locked on the datascreen, were wide with wonder, as if his mind had drifted happily away from the exhaustion of his body.

A holo-image stood before him, on the left side of the broad desk, accentuating the vision on the bright screen, a three-dimensional adjunct to the image at which he had been staring for some time.

Her name, according to the voluminous datafile, was Saischel, and she was incredibly beautiful. Saischel - she who would become Oomy. Saischel, a K'hiria Melasian shaminan of the Wathiri, a tribe of the Noriscka Archipelago, the northernmost strand of islands of K'hiria Melas, strewn across the pearl-crested, sun-washed brilliance of the Great Ovelisk Sea, a native of the same ocean-girt world on which Obi-Wan had been born; a world with only two major continents, and countless strings of small islands; a tropical world, with virtually no planetary tilt, where the climate was warm and languid year round.

He knew nothing of K'hiria Melas, from a personal viewpoint. It had been a subject of study, no different from hundreds of other worlds. Without personal significance.

And yet, when he scrolled through data chips and came across holo-images of that small world, something within his heart seemed to tremble, very slightly; a small distortion in his sub-conscience seemed to recognize something, something intangible and undefinable, bare moments before his waking brain realized what he was seeing.

He gazed deeply into rain gray eyes and smiled. "They would have called you a witch," he said softly. And knew he was right. K'hiria Melasians were hardly known for their tolerance of practitioners of what they saw as 'black arts'. Like Wathira shaminai. And Jedi knights.

Obi-Wan had never known for sure; research into one's family history was actively discouraged among the Jedi, if not completely prohibited. So, good little padawan that he had always been, he had not pursued the knowledge. But, of course, he had not always been a padawan and, before his association with his Master had been formalized, he had made a few discreet forays into Temple records. He had learned nothing specific enough to lend certainty to his theory, but the clues had been plentiful.

Obi-Wan believed that his mother had been a Wathira shaminan. A K'hiria Melasian witch.

He looked once more at the slender image posed so regally before him, swathed in a short ceremonial robe of ivory leather, crowned with a headdress of royal besura feathers and strands of glistening jet beads, legs and forearms bare, hands curled loosely around a heavily carved chesowai staff - the traditional weapon of the Wathira.

She was magnificent.

He leaned forward and set the viewscreen in motion. Something within that image called to him; spoke to him. A story that screamed to be told, to be heard. He would hear it; sleep would wait.

And as he began to scan the data, he did not notice that a tiny little flicker of Force energy seemed to work its way into his sub-conscious mind, something foreign to his own Force signature, something that whispered, just barely, of a spectacular obsession, a fixation decreed by the will of the Force.

It was a seed; and it would grow. 

It would one day bear bitter fruit.

 

******************** ****************** ****************

 

It was a simple bio-report; it should have been dry and dull and uninteresting; it wasn't. Obi-Wan had scanned only a few paragraphs before accessing the ID icon of the preparer. His lips curled in a gentle smile when he saw Tahl's electronic signature, and he returned to the report feeling somehow comforted, almost as if the beautiful Master had reached out and touched him, as she had been wont to do when talking to him about his lessons or his training or the price of bantha meat on Dantooine.

It was Tahl's prose, so it was, in some places, almost poetry:

_The scores of islands that comprise the Noriscka Archipelago range in size from miniscule little sandbars that disappear completely under swelling seas to mountain-capped masses that stretch for dozens of kilometers._

_All have one feature in common._

_They are breathtakingly beautiful._

_The ocean which alternately kisses and batters their shores is warm and painted with the exuberance of a color-mad artist, washed pale silver blue under the noon sun, but shading to aquamarine and turquoise nearer the shore and approaching amethyst in cooler layers below its surface. Breakers, crowned with glistening white froth, march relentlessly toward beaches glowing in shades of beaten gold or frosted rose._

_Lush forests crown the larger islands, providing widely varied habitats for a plethora of wildlife, flora, and scattered pockets of sentient beings._

_The population of the Archipelago is sparse, as, indeed, is true of all of K'hiria Melas, which, at first glance, appears to be something of an inconsistency. The inhabitants are generally healthy, prosperous, and moderately stable, despite a certain innate belligerence and occasional inter-tribal conflict. Such conditions would ordinarily be conducive to a steady population expansion._

_However, careful examination of documents and artifacts unearthed in a series of archeological expeditions conducted under the auspices of the Galactic Archives suggests that the lack of population growth is a product of natural evolution. Records dating from the planet's pre-history indicate that K'hiria Melas was the seat of a thriving civilization when Coruscant was still accreting space dust; thriving, but crowded. Then, in a surprisingly short period of time - overcrowded._

_In those decades, the planet was blessed, as it remains today, with conditions favorable to long lifespans and vigorous reproductive cycles. Too vigorous. With few predators capable of threatening higher lifeforms, a pre-industrial environment that was remarkably free of toxins and carcinogens, a lifestyle that encouraged physical activity and well-being, a healthy diet based on the planet's natural bounty, and an astonishing absence of harmful microbes, the population of the small planet expanded rapidly, then exploded, and, all too soon, the paradise faltered and was lost._

_A world which had known nothing but the blessings of natural splendor became dark and foreboding, as famine and disease, caused by severe overcrowding, strode across its surface, leaving naught but death and destruction in their wake. Civilization, as the K'hiria Melasians had known it, was soon no more than a memory. Then it was not even that. It was millenia before the frayed remnants of that thriving culture would come together, and begin the task of rebuilding._

_But the Force had not been idle during all those long, bitter centuries. A small mutation had occurred within the reproductive system of the females of the dominant sentient species, an alteration that would assure the survival of the species by forestalling a reccurrence of the same mistakes, an alteration that would also have some unexpected and unforgettable side effects._

_The women of K'hiria Melas, from that time through the present, are born with a biological imperative imprinted within their bodies; they bear two children, no more and no less. This is inviolate. However, they will bear them only if their bodies accept the sperm of their respective mates. In this, they have no option; the acceptance or rejection is genetically pre-programmed._

_Sexual interaction between diverse adults remains perfectly possible (and, given the K'hiria Melasian fondness for physical gratification, extremely probable), but pregnancy results only from the bond formed between genetically predetermined mates, through a lifebond formed without volition or consent between the chosen two, and insoluble._

_Thus, from an evolutionary and reproductive standpoint, K'hiria Melasian females are unique in the galaxy, evolved to bond with only one partner, and destined to produce children only for that selfsame partner, or not at all. Given the still relatively bucolic nature of the civilization, and the lack of interaction between various tribes, population control is no longer a problem._

_Fortunately, for the sake of propagation of the species, bondmates are often found within the same ethnic groups, often even in the same village._

_But not always._

_Sometimes, the mates are never found at all, and the children never conceived. Over time, such events took on an almost mystical significance for the K'hiria Melasians, and unbonded females came to be considered harbingers of ill fortune, who, having reached the age of majority by K'hiria Melasian standards, were generally isolated and frequently shunned. This occurred, mostly, by the grand old age of sixteen, and continues to this day. Bonding and childbearing are expected to occur during the early teen years. Such unions occurring later in life are considered unnatural and so, from a certain point of view, they are._

_For the children born of these unions, of parents well into maturity, waken to life with a singular gift. A gift not granted to their counterparts, born of teen-aged unions._

_These children are Force-sensitive, to some degree. For some, it is no more than an awareness of the great energy field, with some small gift of precognition or, perhaps, a slight ability to influence the thoughts of those without such gifts. For others, the Force seems to hover around them, a glow of potential power that knows few boundaries. Such children tend to become great hunters and tribal leaders. Or, most appropriately, spiritual advisors, or shaminai._

_Finally, there is a very select, very small group, composed of children born relatively late in life to those women who were, themselves, born late in life._

_These are the Force-users, the ones the K'hiria Melasians accuse of witchcraft, the potential Jedi._

_Within the past twenty years, four such children have been redeemed from that unforgiving environment. Of the four, one was dispatched into the Agri-Corps, two have developed sufficient skills to warrant further training, and the last has proven to be an exceptionally gifted Jedi, appropriately apprenticed to and trained by a renowned Jedi Master._

Obi-Wan shifted in his seat, his eyes glued to the screen. Would it be this simple, he wondered suddenly. Would his personal secrets be listed here, for his perusal? Or would this thin reference be the last?

He flexed weary shoulders, and resumed reading.

_The final specimen to be subjected to cloning experiments in the Telos Project, under the direct supervision of Geneticist N'vell Aji, was a native of K'hiria Melas - a Wathira shaminan of the Noriscka Archipelago named Saischel o' Einto. Saischel, already acknowledged as a powerful Force wielder among the sub-tribes of her native islands, was captured by a group of mercenaries when she was barely fourteen years of age. Reports gleaned from the Telos facility's database indicate that she was lured to her capture by members of her own clan, who were bribed to aid in her abduction. Resentment, even hatred, of Force wielders on K'hiria Melas remains quite common, as the natives fear that which they do not understand._

_Saischel was Wathiri, but she was also Paln-Vamira, a direct descendent of the original settlers of the islands, and genetic and ancestral records discovered in the Telos archives indicate that her bloodline was exceptionally pure, identifying her as the great-daughter - thirty-ninth-level - of one Sheilagh K'henbi, legendary shaminan and reputed to be a founding member of the Jedi Order._

_Thus, she was a perfect subject for scientific study, and promised to become a formidable Force wielder, given time._

_Of course, she wasn't; given time, that is._

_The abduction severed her connection to her homeworld, thus precluding any possibility of a union with her predestined mate; there would be no children._

_There would, however, be Oomy, a perfect replica of the woman she would never know, never remember._

_Saischel o'Einto paid little attention to her captors or to the indignities they visited upon her body. For the first month of her captivity, she was held in a clinically sterile environment, controlled by Force-suppression drugs that had the added benefit of clouding her mind and rendering her susceptible to suggestion. She existed in a perpetual dream state, wandering through reverent memories of the world from which she had been ripped; walking across pastel sands, watching the horizon for the appearance of the one for whom she had waited all her life. The one who now would never come. The one who bore a genetic marker, identical to the small mark that poised on her left shoulder and would remain there until the consummation of her bonding._

_When the month was past, and the scientists had taken from her all that they would need, she had been transferred to private quarters, still tightly controlled and prevented from accessing the Force, and made available for the pleasure of the scientific staff and, later, when the marks of her captivity began to show on her lovely, young face, for the amusement of the mercenaries._

_She lasted almost three months, spending each succeeding day of it in a deeper level of hell than the day before._

_She died, it was said, hemorrhaging from internal injuries, with a tiny smile on her face, her hand clamped tight to the tiny chevron of the birthmark that sat on her left shoulder._

_She had little cause for celebration in her life, but she had remarked to one who shared her cell that she was eternally grateful for one thing: that he who would have been her soul twin would never know what she had been forced to become._

_She was still six months away from her fifteenth birthday on the day she died._

Obi-Wan leapt to his feet, despite his growing weariness, the words still visible on the screen screaming in his mind.

_The tiny chevron of the birthmark that sat on her left shoulder._

Moving quickly, he sprinted into the hallway and through the door of the small 'fresher opposite the library. A tiny nudge of Force energy flooded the cubicle with light, and the padawan jerked at the edge of his tunic, pulling it free from his left shoulder.

He had, of course, seen it every day of his life, but had never really looked at it before. He knew it was there, even knew how it was shaped, but only because others had remarked on it.

Rosy red, slightly raised, incredibly crisp and precise. A tiny chevron, clinging just at the very top of his left scapula.

A K'hiria Melasian mating mark. The same mark that Saischel o'Einto bore.

Very quietly, almost gently, Obi-Wan went to his knees, a deadly stillness rising within him.

She had been just fourteen then which meant she would have been about twenty-five now. The woman who was meant to be his soulmate, the individual who would have completed him. The person who, perhaps, might, for once and for all, have filled this dreadful emptiness that was his constant companion.

He had never understood what it meant before. Now he did, but oh, how he wished he didn't. 

Now he knew that the void would remain forever empty, forever crying out for the only one who could have filled it.

When he picked himself up and walked back into the library, he moved stiffly, as if his body had aged in those few minutes, if only some small fraction of the ages now wearing heavily on his heart.

The hologram still glowed brightly on the desk, infinitely young, eternally beautiful. Forever lost.

He reached out and touched the image.

There was, of course, nothing there.

With a sudden savage impulse, he smashed his fist against the desktop, sweeping aside stacks of datachips and recorders, registering only slightly that he had just broken something in his hand.

"A Jedi craves not revenge," he muttered, barely aware of what he was saying, losing himself for the moment in storm-cloud eyes.

He was still repeating it when he walked upstairs to his room.

By the time he knelt near the window to attempt to lose himself in meditation, it had become a mantra. Yet something deep within him acknowledged that he didn't believe a single word of it.

 

**************** ***************** ****************

 

The morning dawned gray and frosted with fog, with a not unpleasant hint of autumn in the air. 

Qui-Gon knelt by his bed, as the landscape struggled up from the darkness; he was trying to lose himself in his routine meditation, but something kept tugging at him, something that refused to be identified or pigeon-holed; something that combined elements of familiarity with traces of uneasiness and strange overtones. Somehow, he thought, something spiraled around his padawan, but he couldn't decipher what it might be.

Quietly, almost covertly, he reached out through the training bond - the silent training bond - in search of the cause of the unease, and found, to his very great surprise, that now, it was Obi-Wan who had closed off the link. He could feel his apprentice; feel that he wasn't sleeping and even that he had not slept at all, which was quite surprising. The Master occasionally spent the entire night in meditation and contemplation, but his student had never willingly done so before; Obi-Wan enjoyed his bed too much to forsake it for an entire night.

Yet, it seemed that he had done exactly that.

With a sigh, Qui-Gon rose and went to find out what could possibly be so disturbing as to keep his padawan from the inviting coziness of his bed.

As he neared Obi-Wan's bedroom, rapid footsteps approached.

The Master turned, and, without surprise, found Xani close behind him. The boy was almost dancing with barely controlled energy, his black curls glinting sparks of blue radiance in a shaft of morning sun.

"Master Jinn," he said, remembering to incline his head slightly in a gesture of respect. "Master ru Caeri sends his compliments, and asks that you join him on the terrace for breakfast."

The Master nodded. "Tell your Master that I'll be down shortly, Xani."

The boy looked up at him through thick lashes, his expression hard to read. "He is the headmaster here, it's true, but he is not my Master. That is a position I am hoping . . . I do not yet . . ."

"Yes, Xani, I know. But right now, I must speak to Obi-Wan. Please inform Master ru Caeri that I'll only be a moment."

Xani leaned forward, and Qui-Gon was somewhat stunned by the power of the teen-ager's gaze. "Master, don't you want me? I am not my father, you know. I would never do what he did. I would only make you proud."

The deep breath failed to steady Qui-Gon's trembling as he reached out and laid his hands on the boy's shoulders. "I understand that, Xani. But there are obstacles. I cannot . . ."

"It's Obi-Wan," Xani snapped. "He's what keeps you from me. He'll never be what I can be, Master. Don't you see that?"

"Obi-Wan is . . ."

"Hungry," said a voice from behind them, a voice that almost crackled with ice. "That's what Obi-Wan is. Shall we go?"

"Padawan, I wish to speak with you for a moment."

Obi-Wan's eyes moved from the Master to the boy and back again, and his smile was cold. "Now why would you want to do that?"

Qui-Gon was, of a certainty, no longer a young man, but he was still a Jedi Master, and he could still move faster than the human eye could see. He did so now, and shoved his apprentice against the closed bedroom door behind him, and held him there with the pressure of the Force.

"Why," he said softly, as his padawan stared at him, "hardly matters. The only thing that matters is that I wish it. Is that clear?"

If he'd expected his student to grovel or beg or crumble, he was doomed to disappointment. Obi-Wan simply watched, and nodded.

"Xani," said the Master firmly, well aware of the surge of gloating that swelled within the teen-ager, "please go downstairs and tell Master ru Caeri that we'll join him as soon as we conclude our discussion."

"But . ."

Qui-Gon's eyes were suddenly steely as he turned to look at the boy. For Xani's part, for the first time, he felt some small stirring of what it might be like to face the wrath of a Jedi Master. As he turned to obey, he almost - but not quite - felt a trace of sympathy for the padawan now awaiting his fate.

"Insolence does not become you, Padawan," said the Master, once the boy had gone.

"Ummm, you'd prefer abject servility, no doubt."

"I'd prefer simple courtesy."

Obi-Wan smiled and spoke very softly. "Unless I'm mistaken, I'm not the one who pinned you against a wall."

The Jedi Master's eyes widened, and Obi-Wan almost thought he saw a glint of laughter within those sapphire depths. But it was gone almost before it registered, and he reluctantly concluded that it was probably no more than a trick of the light. Nevertheless, Qui-Gon, after a moment of quiet scrutiny, stepped back, and the padawan felt the Force release him.

"There is a disturbance around you, Young One," said Qui-Gon. "I sense that you have grave misgivings about what lies ahead, but I can't sense any specifics. Tell me what concerns you."

The apprentice took a deep breath. "I'd rather not, if you don't mind." In truth, the padawan was not entirely sure why he was so reluctant to speak of his discovery of Oomy's origin to his Master, but he accepted his misgivings as guidance from the Force and obeyed.

The Master almost - almost - did a double-take. Had he misheard? Had his padawan just refused to answer him?

"And if I do mind?"

Obi-Wan was busy adjusting his cape on his shoulders. "Then we'll simply have to agree to disagree, Master."

If Jedi Masters had been capable of spluttering, thought Obi-Wan, then Qui-Gon most certainly would have done so, and only the concept of the indignity of such an action kept him from it.

"Agree to disagree? Is that what you said to me, Obi-Wan?"

"Yes, Master."

A spark of green fire leapt to life in the depths of sapphire eyes. "I am your Master, Padawan. You are not allowed to choose which questions you will and which you will not answer. You are aware of that."

"I am."

"Well, then?"

The apprentice's resolve remained unshaken. "Some things," he said firmly, "transcend even the discipline of the Order."

"You will, I trust, explain that." There was no mistaking the not-so-subtle warning in the Master's tone.

Obi-Wan returned Qui-Gon's gaze evenly, without flinching. "No. I don't think I will. Unless, of course, you'd like to exchange items of personal information." The apprentice's quicksilver smile was faintly mocking. "You know - I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours. That kind of thing."

Qui-Gon Jinn had handled every possible type of diplomatic and/or political negotiation in his life of service; had mastered the art of maneuvers and counter-maneuvers at the knee of his own legendary Master; had found ways to circumvent the most elaborate plotting and conspiratorial ploys of countless contemporaries. It was inconceivable then that he should now find himself slamming into an unbreachable wall in dealing with his own padawan.

He didn't take it well.

"Padawan," he said in a near-whisper, "this is a mistake. You're hiding something from me, and that is unacceptable."

The apprentice refused to be cowed. "You'd have known," he replied softly, "if you hadn't shut down the bond."

Something dark and furtive moved in the Master's eyes. "It wouldn't have been necessary to shut it down if you had been able to control your jealousy and anger."

The apprentice regarded his Master calmly, careful to tamp down on the pain generated by those words. "If it pleases you to believe that, who am I to disagree?"

"Obi-Wan . . ."

"My pretty Obi," said a small voice, originating at or about the level of Obi-Wan's belt. "Want my Obi - now!"

For a span of heartbeats, the Master hesitated, his eyes holding his padawan as surely as his hands might have done. Something within him was insisting that he should not let his student go; he should hold on now, and set everything right. Before another hour passed. Before random elements came together to generate an alteration in the stream of time that would change his life forever. Before it was too late.

Instead, he stepped back, and looked down into a face that could only be described as angelic - if dirty.

Obi-Wan dropped to a knee quickly, circling the little girl with a protective arm. "Good morning, Pretty Oomy."

The Master studied the child intently. She was entirely too small to be a member of the clone group, and her Force signature contained none of the distortions present in the other children. Perhaps she was the daughter of one of the local staff members, but somehow, that didn't feel right either.

Qui-Gon knelt and continued his observation. She was really, quite remarkably beautiful.

"Master Qui-Gon," said Obi-Wan, smiling into the child's eyes, "this is Oomy." He looked up and met his Master's gaze. "She is K'hiria Melasian."

"Hello, Oomy," said the elder Jedi. "Do you live around here?"

The child actually rolled her eyes, impatience plain in her face. "Not around," she retorted. "Live here."

Qui-Gon frowned, and looked to his padawan for answers.

"Oomy," said Obi-Wan, so softly that the girl seemed not to hear, "was the last of the subjects of the experiment."

The Master almost gaped at the child. "But she's not . . ."

"Yes. She is."

The apprentice looked up and deliberately opened the mental link between them, just enough to send a quick message. _And I don't think she knows._

Qui-Gon merely nodded, noting for the first time the surprisingly protective aura his padawan had wrapped around the little girl. For his part, Obi-Wan simply watched his Master's reaction, wondering if anything within the Force would signal the connection between himself and this child.

And, apparently, something did, but only vaguely. The Master frowned, knowing that an eddy in the Force contained some esoteric message, but unable to decipher its meaning. Nevertheless, a watchful stillness in Obi-Wan's expression told him that there was more here than met the eye.

For her part, Oomy looked up at the very large Jedi Master, rain-gray eyes huge and touched with shadow, hinting of a wisdom far beyond her years.

Qui-Gon leaned forward as if to pat the girl on the head, and she recoiled sharply, throwing her arms around Obi-Wan, shrinking from any contact with the Master.

The apprentice stroked her back gently. "It's OK, Little One. Master Qui-Gon won't hurt you."

A somewhat grimy fist knotted itself in his padawan braid. "Not hurt me," she whispered. "Hurt you."

"Little One," said the Master, careful to move very slowly as he reached toward her. "I would never hurt Obi-Wan."

The girl turned to glare at him. "Liar!" she shouted, and kicked him squarely in the shin. The sturdy boot encasing her foot provided a solid "thunk" on impact.

Oomy squirmed free of Obi-Wan's arms and took off at a dead run, as the Jedi Master made a strange, garbled sound in his throat.

Obi-Wan looked down at the floor, up at the ceiling, out through the nearby window, over at the dark landscape hanging on the wall - everywhere, anywhere - but at his Master's face, a face now turning bright scarlet.

He would not laugh; he would not laugh; oh, by the gods, if he laughed, he was a dead padawan, and he knew it. He saw it in those sapphire eyes, sparking now with an anger that must - _must_ \- be released into the Force. It would not do, after all, for a Jedi Master to indulge himself in rage directed at a petite, delicate, exquisite little girl.

Finally, in desperation, the apprentice reeled back into his bedroom and practically threw himself into the 'fresher, where he leaned against the wall, allowed himself to slide to the floor, and laughed until tears poured freely down his face.

When he was finally able to compose himself, and cleanse all traces of his hilarity from his face, he once again exited his bedroom and went in search of breakfast.

Master Qui-Gon, dignity quite restored, was seated at a small table on the eastern terrace, enjoying the aroma of a cup of tea. Across the table, Master ru Caeri was similarly engaged.

There was no acknowledgement of the Master's encounter with an angry little K'hiria Melasian, beyond one lifted eyebrow as Obi-Wan slid into his seat and forced himself to meet the steady gaze of those midnight eyes.

The padawan was careful not to smile, as he reached for the kaffa carafe. For the moment, smiling was a little too much like grinning, which could, in turn, lead to laughing, a destination most vigorously to be avoided until the thundercloud still discernible over Master Jinn's head had had sufficient time to dissipate.

Obi-Wan was grateful for the steam from his brimming cup; it helped - slightly - to conceal the very faint twitch of his lips that he simply couldn't control.

 

****************** ******************** *************

 

"I want to know about Oomy," said Qui-Gon Jinn, noting the slight hitch in his padawan's breathing as Master ru Caeri prepared to respond. No verbal command was issued; nor was one necessary. The apprentice knew no interference would be tolerated in this venue.

"Oomy," said ru Caeri, "is the final adjustment, the ultimate conclusion of the experiment. The perfect clone. Completely indistinguishable from any other child."

"But she appears to be so young, so much younger than the others."

"Yes, but her rate of development appears to be normal, for her. Her gestation period, in the lab tanks, was more than a year, almost twice the normal gestation period for her species. By normal human standards, her development has been extremely slow. She is now slightly more than ten standard years old, but, as you can see, she is barely half the physical size one would expect. In addition, she was slow to walk, to talk, slow to reach most of the milestones of growth. My wife believed - and I see no reason to disagree - that the slow development is the key to perfecting the cloning process. It allows time to rectify the slight genetic degradation that occurred in the others, and it continues even as we speak. Oomy is, very much, a work in progress."

"Is she mentally . . ."

Ru Caeri actually laughed aloud. "Oh, no, my friend. Far from it. She may speak like a toddler, but she has an astonishing intellect. She just doesn't choose to exhibit it, most of the time."

"She doesn't seem to get along with the others very well," observed Obi-Wan, hoping his remark would generate more information.

It did. "No. She doesn't," agreed the Locabarian Jedi. "Oomy has always been a loner. It's almost as if . . ." Eyes like pale drops of amber met and locked with those of crystal blue, "she's waiting for someone. Someone specific."

Obi-Wan looked away, wondering.

"What else?" asked Qui-Gon, aware of nuances of speculation and uncertainty, but unable to trace them to their source. He did, however, understand one thing; his padawan, to his astonishment, was somehow central to whatever unspoken communication lingered around them.

Ru Caeri smiled. "She's the recreation of a K'hiria Melasian shaminan, apparently one of exceptional power and ability. A witch, if you will, from one of the oldest bloodlines. Which means that her midi-chlorian count is staggering, although she has not, thus far, demonstrated any knowledge of the Force. Which means little, for Oomy is remarkably adept at keeping her own counsel, when she so chooses."

"The donor," said Qui-Gon, "for lack of a better term, was she fully adult?"

"No. Taken at fourteen, prior to bonding."

"Still marked, then?"

Ru Caeri looked at Obi-Wan Kenobi, whose eyes were suddenly fixed on his kaffa cup, finding something endlessly fascinating in its stark design.

"Yes. Still marked."

"And the child?"

The Locabarian's voice conveyed a tinge of regret to the silent padawan as he replied. "Also marked."

Obi-Wan heard the trace of reluctance in the Master's tone, and risked a quick glance at the Locabarian Jedi. What he saw in those amber eyes made him close his own. Ru Caeri knew; somehow he knew. And he would not volunteer the information to anyone, but neither would he conceal it, if asked directly. This was the Jedi way, and the Padawan knew he could expect nothing else.

An uncomfortable silence formed around them and deepened. Until the padawan decided that, if nothing else, he could accept fate's decree with grace. He raised his head and gazed out into the garden, toward the sound of children's laughter, before turning to confront ru Caeri. "How did you know?" he asked, his voice velvet soft.

The Locabarian made no pretense of not understanding. "I have an eidetic memory, Padawan, and I was present when they brought you back from Salmundia two years ago. If you recall, you had severe burns on your back so they brought you in face down. I saw the mark then, and recognized it immediately, of course. It's identical."

Qui-Gon looked from one to the other, noting the deep misery welling up in his apprentice. He took a sip of his tea before proceeding.

"Your birthmark, Obi-Wan."

"Yes, Master."

"I wish to see it. Please."

The padawan sighed and rose, pushing his tunic down off his left shoulder. He turned and stood motionless as his Master moved to stand behind him, and he tried, not altogether successfully, not to react as Qui-Gon placed a warm hand on the young shoulder, while leaning forward to get a close look at the mark in question.

"Oomy bears the same mark?" said the Master softly.

"She does," answered ru Caeri. "She is the genetic replica of the woman who would have been your padawan's bondmate. A descendant of Sheilagh K'henbi, as, I suspect, is he."

His words fell into a well of silence, as everything around them seemed to recede, leaving them alone in a zone of emptiness.

"Padawan," said Qui-Gon finally, his fingers now just touching that young shoulder that trembled ever so slightly.

Obi-Wan turned, and looked up into the eyes that had been his anchor for all of his adult life. He expected nothing; expected only depths of coldness and distance. Thus he was totally unprepared for what he actually found. Whatever else might be wrong between them; whatever bitterness might lie in wait; for this moment, there was only love in those eyes, and a bottomless well of comfort and concern. "I'm so very sorry, my Padawan," whispered the Master.

It was suddenly too much. The apprentice would have gone to his knees had he not been caught and held by his Master's arms, and soothed with gentle hands and soft words of endearment.

"Bring him," said ru Caeri, leading the way inside to a small, private salon.

Qui-Gon easily lifted his student and followed the Locabarian.

"I can walk," protested the Padawan.

"Of course you can," came the response, "but why should you?"

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to argue, then closed it sharply. Unless he was prepared to attempt to physically overwhelm his Master, a task he had yet to accomplish to his own satisfaction, he knew that any effort to stand on his own would only succeed in making the situation worse, not to mention making himself look like a petulant child. So he simply closed his eyes, and enjoyed the warm comfort flowing through him from the bond his Master had just re-opened.

"I feel like an idiot," said the apprentice, as Qui-Gon lowered him to a well-cushioned sleep couch.

Master ru Caeri busied himself with preparing a cup of tea for the Padawan, as Qui-Gon knelt beside him, one massive hand gently stroking his creased forehead.

"Now why would you feel like that?"

Obi-Wan seemed to flounder for a moment, looking for the right words. Qui-Gon was forced to conceal a small smile; one thing his Padawan was definitely not was inarticulate. If he could not find a means to express his dismay, then this astonishing discovery had hit him very hard indeed.

"I never even knew her. Probably never would have known her. So why . . .". His throat suddenly would not function.

"No way of knowing that for sure," said Qui-Gon. "But even if there were, the fact remains that someone who was meant for you, someone to whom you were destined to join, is gone. Any man who could face that, without finding himself stricken with grief, is not a man I care to know. And certainly not the man I want for my padawan."

The apprentice lifted himself to a sitting position and regarded his Master with as much calm and dignity as he could muster. "So we're back to that again."

The Master accepted the cup of tea from ru Caeri and refused to respond until Obi-Wan had taken a few sips.

"I wasn't aware we had ever left it," said Qui-Gon finally. "Are you so eager to renounce your old Master?"

Obi-Wan managed, barely, not to gasp for breath. "You know better than that."

"Yes," replied the Master. "I do. Is it possible that I trust you, more than you trust me?"

The Padawan simply stared, not wanting to speak the words that sprang to his tongue.

Qui-Gon held that gaze for several moments, before lowering his eyes. "All right, Padawan. I know. Even if you don't say it, I know that you have little or no reason to believe in me. I've hurt you too many times in the past. I have no real defense, and you have no reason to trust. Except that, no matter how wrong I've been, I've always come back to you, because I know in my heart, that with you is where I should be. Is that enough?"

Obi-Wan was almost afraid to respond. He wanted to believe, wanted to hope. But he knew that any further deterioration of their bond would be more than he could bear if he allowed himself to grow complacent.

"I don't know," he said finally. He saw the uncertainty of his answer cut through his Master, and knew that he had hurt the man he loved more than his own life. But it was said now, and he couldn't unsay it. Nor, he found, did he really want to. As painful as it undoubtedly was, it was also the truth.

He would let it stand.

"Can we at least try?" asked Qui-Gon at last, shields erecting automatically as he sought to conceal the depth of the anguish rising in him in response to his padawan's bald honesty.

Obi-Wan smiled, and the smile became a grin. He simply couldn't resist. "Do - or do not. There is no try."

Across the room, ru Caeri chuckled softly, much to Qui-Gon's irritation. "For heaven's sake," growled the towering Master, "don't encourage him. He's already cheeky enough."

"Yes," replied ru Caeri, still smiling. "So I see."

What he did not say, but easily could have, was that he could discern the depth of the Master's love for this 'cheeky' child, perhaps even better than Qui-Gon himself could. The Locabarian thought it exceedingly strange that humans so frequently could not see that which was right in front of their faces. He really hoped that Master Jinn would be enlightened in time, before he did or said something that opened not just a wedge but a chasm between him and his padawan, and both were lost to each other.

That, thought ru Caeri, would be a real shame. 

"If you get out of line," said Obi-Wan, a sly smile brightening his face, "I could always call Oomy in to deal with you. She seems to have made a big impression on you."

Qui-Gon grinned, and reached down to rub his shin. "Oh, yes. A big impression, which is probably turning black and blue as we speak."

The padawan smiled and tried to rise, but Qui-Gon was not - quite - done. "Is there anything I can do, to help you get through this, my young apprentice? Do you need some time off, to grieve?"

But Obi-Wan shook his head, already chaffing under the Master's restraints. "We still have work to do here," he said softly. "I'll be better off busy."

Qui-Gon nodded, and allowed his student to rise.

"There is one thing, though," said the apprentice as he straightened his tunic, one hand absent-mindedly rubbing over his birthmark.

"Anything," said the Master, and meant it.

"When this is over, I want to go to K'hiria Melas. I want to find her body and take it home."

Qui-Gon, acting only on impulse, reached out and adjusted the padawan braid, and cupped that bright young face. "That much," he said softly, "I can promise you."

A rather loud disturbance at the door announced the arrival of a very small, somewhat grungy, but very determined young visitor, who ran to the padawan's side with all the subtlety and finesse of a guided missile. "My Obi," she announced, to no one in particular, throwing herself into his arms.

Master Qui-Gon Jinn, renowned for his courage and bravura throughout the Republic, beat a hasty retreat from the room, muttering words only another Jedi could have picked up. Obi-Wan burst out laughing when he distinctly heard, "You'll get no argument from me, Holy Terror."

 

***************** ***************** ****************

 

Some three hours later, he wished he had held on to some of that laughter, as it was now in very short supply, and desperately needed.

But this was no laughing matter.

As always when confronting members of the Jedi Council, the padawan stood two steps back and to the side of his Master, his hands folded into the sleeves of his robe, as they faced the comm-screen, which fed images directly from the Council Chamber at the peak of the Jedi Temple.

Definitely not as always was the tension that existed between Master and padawan, tension so tangible, it was almost visible.

Master ru Caeri stood off to the side, content, for the moment, to observe.

Anyone who knew Qui-Gon Jinn well, or even moderately well, would have known that he was angry, though he struggled to channel his rage directly into the Force. His success was limited, at best. He closed his eyes briefly and admitted, at least to himself, that it wasn't working at all.

Master Yoda was speaking, and every word seemed to strike sparks in his former apprentice. "Reports, have we that your objectivity is in question, Master Qui-Gon. What say you?"

"My Masters," he answered, seeking to center himself (and vowing that he would one day make Captain K'terra very sorry for her interfering ways) "this is a difficult assignment. Harsh judgments may be necessary, but I believe we must first examine all options. These children, whom others seem so eager to dismiss as nothing but problems, are, themselves, victims. It would be unconscionable to condemn them without first giving them an opportunity to find their place in our community."

"And the dangers in giving them such an opportunity? Believe, do you, that they are dangerous?"

"As with all Force users, Master, there is a potential for danger. But how are they to resist the call of the Dark Side if they are never taught the path of Light?"

Yoda fell silent for a moment, as he studied the face of his former student. Finally, he lifted his eyes to look beyond the Master's face.

"Padawan," said the wizened Jedi, citrus eyes bright and sharp. "Step forward."

Qui-Gon was obviously startled. In dealings with the Council, it was the duty of the padawan to stand and observe and offer mute psychological support. The key word, however, from the Master's standpoint, was "mute".

With obvious misgivings, Obi-Wan did as he was told, and bowed slightly.

Mace Windu leaned forward, his gaze also fixed on the apprentice. "Padawan Kenobi, do you agree with your Master's assessment?"

Obi-Wan drew a sharp breath, and, in the process, almost failed to notice that his Master had done the same.

Silence stretched around them, and Obi-Wan sighed as he realized that the floor - in direct opposition to his wishes - was not going to open up and swallow him.

"Padawan, answer, you will," said Yoda firmly.

"Masters," said Qui-Gon abruptly, "this is unfair to Obi-Wan. This mission has been trying for him, and he . . ."

"Know this, we do," replied Yoda calmly. "But assigned this task, you both were. His opinion is required now, no less than yours."

"But . . . ."

"No," said Obi-Wan, quite loudly. "I do not agree."

Qui-Gon spun to face his apprentice, disbelief blazing in his eyes. "Padawan, do not . . ."

"Allow him to speak, you will," interrupted Yoda. "As much to lose as anyone, he has. Or more."

Obi-Wan turned slightly to face his Master, his eyes dark with sorrow and begging to be forgiven. But he would not decline to answer.

"I agree," he began, "that these children are victims, that they had no part in what has happened to them. But that's not enough to justify opening the Temple to them. For I do believe that they're dangerous. It's not what they've been taught; it's what they are. And I don't believe you can train them to betray their nature."

He turned back to face the comm-screen. "At the same time, they are still innocent of any wrongdoing, and it's wrong to convict them of things they haven't yet done."

"Your recommendation?" asked Master Windu.

Obi-Wan glanced at his Master, and saw that Qui-Gon's jaws were clamped so tight that his face appeared almost bloodless. "As my Master suggests, the three who are replicas of the Jedi who were part of the original mission . . ." He paused and drew a deep breath. "The biological child of Master Tahl, and the child who represents the successful conclusion of the project should be brought to Coruscant for further testing." He was aware of a small, relieved smile tugging at his Master's mouth. 

"But," he said firmly, "before boarding the transport, they should all be fitted with Force suppression collars."

"No," snapped Qui-Gon, his eyes wide with disbelief, "that's inhumane. They will be bewildered without the Force. It is a constant presence in their lives."

But Obi-Wan was not dissuaded. "In point of fact," he replied, "it isn't. Except for the boy, Xani, their access to the Force is different from ours. As I understand it, it isn't constant, at all. Rather, they must reach for it consciously. And, again with the exception of the boy, they have no ability to use it in traditional Jedi ways. What they do have, however, is the ability to block access to it, for others. The collar should effectively prevent that and thus, protect the Temple."

The padawan met his Master's eyes squarely, and refused to quail before the raw resentment he read there.

"It is wrong," Qui-Gon almost snarled. "This boy has relied on the Force for his comfort, his sense of himself, for his entire life. To take it from him . . ."

"A reasoning being, he is," said Yoda. "Is he not? Explain this to him, you can, to assuage his fears. Understand, he will, that this is necessary, and not necessarily permanent."

"But . . ."

"Padawan Kenobi," said Master ru Caeri, stepping forward from the shadows, "is correct. No matter how sympathetic we may be to the plight of these children, the safety of the Order is paramount. This is the only way, without jeopardizing many, many innocent lives."

Qui-Gon Jinn fought for composure, his eyes clamped shut. He could not win now, not without an ally to back him up.

He opened his eyes and turned to face the one who had served that purpose for lo, these many years, but who had chosen to serve it no more. Midnight blue eyes now glittered with frost, as he confronted his padawan.

"It appears," he said softly, "that you have carried the day, my young apprentice. Congratulations."

There was no way to disguise the anguish in his eyes as he stood and faced his Master's wrath. "I'm sorry, Master."

But Qui-Gon was beyond hearing the genuine regret in that young voice; he was instead deep in the bitter taste of betrayal.

"Don't call me that. A padawan does not knife his Master in the back."

"Master Qui-Gon," thundered Yoda, banging his gimmer stick violently, "you will not accuse your apprentice of such treachery. His duty to the Order, he did, as should you. Proud of his integrity, you should be."

"Oh, yes," answered the Master, calm now, deadly calm. "Very proud."

"Sending transport, we are," said Yoda. "Arrive in two days, it will. Be ready. And may the Force be with you."

The comm-screen flared and went black. And the silence within the room was deafening.

"Qui-Gon," said ru Caeri gently.

But he didn't get a chance to finish. The towering Master took one look at his padawan, a look that felt, from Obi-Wan's perspective, as if it might flay the skin from his flesh, and fled from the room.

The Locabarian watched the student sink to his knees slowly, gracefully, as if he meant to slip into meditation. Only the tremor in his hands betrayed the fact that he fell because his legs would no longer hold him upright.

"Give him some time, Obi-Wan," said ru Caeri. "He'll come around."

The Padawan simply sat, staring into emptiness. For a while, it seemed he wouldn't answer, but, finally, very softly, he began to speak. "It seems that's all I've ever done, just give him time. You'd think I'd be used to it, by now. I wonder, though. This time, I wonder, if maybe we haven't finally run out of time."

The Master tried, finally, to move him, to send him to his bed, but, in the end, he realized that the apprentice had to find his own way through this darkness. When ru Caeri gave up and retired to his own quarters, the Padawan was still kneeling there, eyes wide and dry and dark. And empty of hope.

 

********************** ******************** ************

tbc


	11. Burning Bridges

REPRISE of original quote -- in case anyone missed it:

_But, oh! Fell death's untimely frost  
That nipt my flower sae early._

\--- Robert Burns/ _Highland Mary_

 

Chapter 11: Burning Bridges

 

_Like ashes on the water_  
_I drift away in sorrow_  
_Knowing that the day my lesson's finally learned,_  
_I'll be standing at a river_  
_Staring out across tomorrow,_  
_And the bridge I need to get there will be a bridge_  
_that I have burned._

_\---- Burning Bridges_  
Garth Brooks/Stephanie Brown

 

Despite the presence of a score of young, perpetually busy bodies, the following two days passed in a strange silence, filled with foreboding. The eyes of the children who were to remain at the facility followed the Jedi everywhere they moved, banked fires of resentment smoldering in their depths. Even Obi-Wan, who had previously been accorded the same interest one would show in a new toy, was viewed with skepticism and suspicion; this, of course, deteriorated into something much more menacing as soon as Xani revealed the conditions under which the remaining children would be transported, and the fact that the suggestion had come from young Kenobi.

The padawan found himself, abruptly, _persona non grata,_ almost everywhere. 

For the most part, he kept to his room, or to the library, where he continued to correlate and review the work of Insa ru Caeri. He wasn't particularly enjoying the process, but he was learning a great deal about genetic coding and DNA manipulation. 

There was no contact between the apprentice and his Master, other than at mealtime, when the silence was so heavy and brooding that digestion became almost impossible. After the second such ordeal, Obi-Wan simply stopped responding to the bell that signaled the serving of a meal, contenting himself instead, with fresh fruit, bread and cheese from the cooler, at odd hours. He found that his appetite had almost disappeared anyway, so such a regimen was no real hardship.

On the morning of their departure, he was still encrypting datachips, and trying to prepare massive amounts of information for downloading when the comm unit chimed a greeting. Absently, the Padawan reached out with a tendril of Force, and activated the viewer.

"The use of the Force for trivial physical tasks," said a sardonic voice, "is strongly discouraged by the Jedi Code."

The apprentice grinned. "Nag, nag, nag," he retorted, looking up to confront Captain K'terra. "I thought you swore you weren't ever coming back here."

She regarded him with baleful eyes. "What I swore," she replied, "which you know full well, was that I was never providing transport for the Bonehead again. But we're big enough, just barely, to accommodate the passengers you want to transport, and I go where the fare sends me."

Obi-Wan frowned. "You probably should have kept that pledge."

A grin that could only be described as nasty touched her lips. "Made his list, didn't I? And not his 'A' list either, I'll wager."

"You're incorrigible," laughed the Padawan, "and, if I were you, I'd keep my head down."

"Oh, and I'm sure that's worked for you, hasn't it?"

His smile was lopsided. "About as well as you'd expect."

"Yeah," she said softly. "We heard. Gutsy move, Kiddo, but it sure didn't endear you to Great Stoneface, now, did it?"

Obi-Wan groaned. "Please don't call him that."

Now it was her turn to laugh, although the sound of it was bittersweet. "Still defending, aren't you, in spite of everything. When you gonna learn, Little One? If loyalty begets betrayal, there's something wrong with the picture."

The padawan regarded her solemnly. "From his perspective, he's the one who was betrayed."

"Sithspit!" she snapped. "You know better, and so does he. He's just too damned stubborn to admit it."

"This discussion," he said abruptly, "is over, since we're just going to wind up in a verbal catfight if we continue. Got an ETA for me?"

"Forty minutes," she replied, completely unperturbed by his grim expression. "You ready, or should I say, are they ready?"

"Not yet. It's going to be ticklish."

Her eyes narrowed. "Ticklish or not, I've got my orders, Lover. Until they're collared, I don't initiate landing procedures."

"I know," he answered. "I'll see to it right away."

She nodded and started to disengage when a thought struck her. "Oh, by the way," she said, grinning again, "Viszt is looking forward to seeing you again, and hopes that your raging Master didn't chew your ass completely off. Given that its much too nice an ass to waste on chewing."

Despite himself, Obi-Wan chuckled. "Thanks for announcing that on every hyper-link frequency from here to Unknown Space."

"Don't mention it," she laughed. "We'll hold here, and wait for your signal, Lover. Make it snappy, OK?"

Obi-Wan sighed, and entered a code in his datapad to download the last of Insa's encrypted files.

With obvious reluctance, he pulled his comm-link from his belt, and opened the channel. "Master?" His voice was rock steady, betraying nothing.

"Yes?" Cold, without inflection or, more significantly, title.

"Our transport is keeping station forty minutes out. Waiting for our signal to approach."

"Understood. The infirmary, five minutes."

Obi-Wan rose and moved to the locked cabinet set into the library wall. He had no code for the encrypted lock, but the apprentice was tremendously gifted in coaxing electronic devices to bend to his will, so gifted that Master Mace Windu had once remarked that it was a good thing the boy had become a Jedi, because if he'd decided on a career as a jewel thief, he'd have been virtually unstoppable. In less than a minute, the storage vault was open.

The collars lay inside, ten in all, although only five would be needed.

They gleamed dull pewter in the light, looking perfectly innocuous. Nevertheless, Obi-Wan suppressed a shiver.

Every Jedi establishment kept a supply of Force inhibitors on hand. In certain conditions, it was necessary to interfere with a Jedi's connection to the Force, either for the safety of the Force-wielder himself, or, sometimes, the well-being of those around him. Certain illnesses or injuries could trigger episodes of paranoia or even psychosis, and the ability to manipulate matter and energy through the Force, at such times, posed a huge risk to all concerned. Thus, the necessity for the collars.

But no Jedi would ever be able to handle such devices without a certain level of trepidation.

As Obi-Wan lifted the five from the case that contained them, he was painfully aware of a strange pressure in his chest. He had tried to tell himself that the use of the collars would not be traumatic for these children, but, in truth, he was not sure. He knew that his suggestion was the only safe way to proceed; knew that it had to be done. But knew, also, that he hated himself for doing it.

Squaring his shoulders and drawing a deep breath, he strode out of the library with a determined step. Misgivings? Oh, yes, he had them. But he would do what was required of him, what he believed he must do. In spite of his own uncertainties. In spite of second - and third - thoughts. And, most of all, in spite of the waves of bitter anger he could still sense emanating from his Master. And in spite of the fact that he believed in his heart that this would be the last action he would ever take, as the padawan learner of Qui-Gon Jinn.

 

************* ****************** ********************

 

The Chosen Five, as Xani had termed them, much to Master ru Caeri's displeasure, were seated in the infirmary. Waiting. Patiently.

But not really. Obi-Wan could sense their anxiety as he approached, and their anger. But he could also sense that these emotions were being broadcast to him alone; both Jedi Masters remained outside the loop.

The padawan's sense of astonishment was renewed. For these children to have so much control, with virtually no formal training, was almost beyond belief. And raised the unavoidable question of how strong they would prove to be if they ever were trained.

_Stronger than you, Apprentice._

There was absolutely no mistaking the arrogance of that mental voice. Obi-Wan, barely, managed not to tell the little troll to go . . .

The laughter erupted through the Force. _Why don't you just indulge yourself , while you still can, Pretty Jedi? You couldn't replace my father, and now I'm going to replace you. But, if you're really nice to me, maybe I'll keep you around, for entertainment purposes._

Now it was Obi-Wan's turn, and he didn't bother doing it through the Force. He strode into the infirmary, leaned over the chair where Xani sat smirking, and laughed in the boy's face. "In your dreams, Twerp. Where do you get that awful dialog? Too many B holovids?"

Xani's face flushed dark and ugly. With a glare toward the Jedi Masters, both of whom were watching the exchange with raised eyebrows, he took refuge once more in non-verbal communication. _You'll pay for this, Kenobi. You'll be begging me, before this is over._

The padawan's smile never wavered, and this time, he replied in kind. _Jedi don't beg, Kid. Now you may be the reincarnation of Big, Bad Xanatos, but, between the two of us, there's only one Jedi here._

Suddenly, with amazing speed, the boy launched himself toward the apprentice, his eyes blazing with fury, fists flailing.

Obi-Wan simply - moved - and wasn't where he had been.

Xani landed with a surprised whoop, in a pile of thrashing arms and legs.

Before anyone else could even begin to react, Qui-Gon was there, scooping the boy up into strong, comforting arms.

Obi-Wan could only watch, as the child allowed himself to be soothed, and favored the apprentice with a smug smile, carefully concealed from the Master.

With a smile of his own that he knew was more than a little venal, and knew he should be ashamed of - but wasn't - Obi-Wan held up the Force-suppression collars.

Qui-Gon's eyes were hard and frosted as he accepted one of the collars from his padawan's hand. Obi-Wan could hardly fail to notice that the Master took exaggerated care to be sure their fingers never touched.

For a fraction of a second, discernible only to the Jedi Master and his apprentice, the padawan paused. So that was the way of it, then. He did what he had to do; he had no options. He turned away, internalizing the feelings raging within him, and knelt before the tiny, gray-eyed beauty standing beside him.

Oomy placed her hand in his, and he saw the boil of storm clouds in her eyes as she glanced toward his Master. 

Obi-Wan inhaled sharply. His Force sense could pick up nothing from the little girl, and Master ru Caeri had indicated that his own attempts to access her through the Force had been similarly frustrated. Yet, the padawan was almost sure that she was actively accessing the thoughts and feelings of everyone around her, no matter how well shielded. 

There was no way to be certain - he hoped that the tests to be performed at the Temple would confirm his theory - but he was really beginning to believe that Oomy's strength in the Force might eventually prove to dwarf everyone else's, including his own.  
Behind the tiny girl stood Yoni, her hand laid gently on Oomy's shoulder. For a moment, Obi-Wan raised his eyes and stared into that face, that face that recalled another face - older, wiser, and alight with sardonic wit, but no less beautiful. He couldn't be sure, but he thought there might be just the barest trace of softness in those green and gold eyes.

"Oomy," he said softly, careful to keep his mental shielding minimal so she could read him more easily, if, indeed, that's what she was doing, "I need you to trust me, now. OK? We're going to be leaving here soon. In a ship to take us to my home. Do you understand that?"

She nodded. unconcerned. "Oomy go with Obi."

He smiled. "Yes. With me. But, in order to do that, to be sure that everyone is safe, I need you to do me a favor."

She peered into his eyes, still remarkably calm. "What favor?"

He lifted the metal collar and held it before her eyes. "I need you to wear this."

"Why?"

He sighed and opened his mouth to answer. But she forestalled him.

She reached out and touched the collar and smiled. "Makes voices go away," she said, obviously unperturbed.

The padawan took a moment to reflect that it was a good thing he was already on his knees; otherwise, the serenity and certitude of her remark might have knocked him flat. "Yes," he confirmed, "it does. Does that scare you?"

She reached for his braid. "You go with me?"

"Absolutely."

Her smile was brighter than sunrise. "Then nothing scares me. Put it on."

Obi-Wan took a deep breath. It was, after all, one thing for her to say it was all right; it might be quite another for her to actually accept it. Gently, holding his breath, he snapped the collar around her neck, and engaged the lock.

The little girl simply smiled, now hanging on to his braid so tightly that he felt the tug on his scalp.

"You all right?" he asked, obviously still concerned.

She nodded and laid her forehead against his. "Not to worry, my Obi. All fine."

And she flopped herself into his lap, all but yanking his braid out by the roots in the process, but he was too relieved to feel it.

With steely determination to avoid even the slightest suggestion of smugness, the padawan turned toward his Master and waited.

This would be the truly crucial test.

"Please, Master Qui-Gon," said Xani, tears starting in his eyes, "I'm afraid. It's all I've ever had."

"I know, Xani," said the Master, his huge hand gently smoothing the boy's riot of curls. "It's a terrible invasion of your privacy. But we must do this. Otherwise, you cannot come to the Temple." Midnight eyes glowed soft and gentle. "Otherwise, you will never be a Jedi."

The boy stood silent for a moment, something moving behind his eyes. He then darted a quick glance at Obi-Wan, before leaning forward against Qui-Gon's shoulder. "Will you make me a Jedi?"

"Xani, I . . "

"You were meant to be my Master," the boy insisted. "Everyone knows that."

Qui-Gon pointedly did not look at his Padawan. "Xani, I will do everything in my power to see that you are trained to be the Jedi you are meant to be."

"And if the Council refuses me?" The boy would not relent; Obi-Wan knew that, and was pretty sure his Master did, as well.

"You must trust me, to look after your best interests."

It was not exactly the answer Xani had hoped for, but it was a great deal more than the Master should have revealed.

Xani's next look at Obi-Wan was triumphant, for both knew that the elder Jedi had just pledged to put the welfare of the boy above everything else, including the welfare of the Jedi Temple. Not in so many words, of course, but the meaning was clear. It became even clearer when, after clasping the collar around the boy's throat, the Master refused to meet the eyes of either his counterpart or his padawan.

Affixing the remaining collars was a matter of moments only. As Obi-Wan had understood from the beginning, Xani was the key to gaining the co-operation of the others.

As the padawan placed the collar around Yoni's throat, he surprised a strange expression on her face, and she reached up, very gently, and touched his chin with one finger. As he engaged the clasp, he heard two words echo softly in his consciousness. _Sorry, Obi._

He jumped slightly, catching her eye, then nodded briefly. He wasn't even sure what she was sorry about, but he figured it didn't matter much anyway. There was plenty enough to go around.

As the group turned to leave the infirmary, Master ru Caeri stepped forward and detained Obi-Wan by clasping his shoulder. The padawan waited, noting that the Master seemed loathe to speak until everyone else had made their exit.

Qui-Gon Jinn was the last to depart, and he paused briefly in the doorway, turning to regard his apprentice solemnly. Then he looked to ru Caeri, a question in his eyes, but the Locabarian said nothing.

Obi-Wan would have had to be completely Force blind to overlook the flare of anger in his Master's eyes as he went through the door.

"Can I help you, Master Ge'lias?" said the Padawan, once they were alone.

"No, Child," said the Master, with a small smile. "And I'm not even certain that what I have to say will help you, but it might. So I feel compelled to pass it along to you."

He turned and walked to a small window, to stare down into a play area, where some of the children were engaged in a game of tag.

"My wife had a theory, Young One, which you will not find in any of her files. She never recorded it, except to tell me about it. I have debated with myself long and hard over whether or not to relate it to you, for it remains just a theory. And even a somewhat tenuous one, based on a lot of unproven - and unprovable - assumptions."

"But you've decided to tell me," prompted Obi-Wan, when the Master fell silent for a moment.

Ru Caeri nodded. "Yes. I have. It may make no difference at all, but just knowing might give you some small advantage."

The Master took a deep breath and turned back to face the apprentice. "When I recognized the bond mark on your shoulder, and I came back here and told Insa about it, she was intrigued, to put it mildly. She did a lot of digging into Temple records, databanks, a lot of informational resources, and found that the fact that you bear such a mark had been recorded in quite a few different databases over the years. It was, in effect, common knowledge, providing one knew where to look."

Obi-Wan frowned. "I'm not sure I see the significance."

"Obi-Wan, have you ever pulled up the files on Xanatos?"

The apprentice shook his head. "I never thought he would approve." It was totally unnecessary to specify who _he_ was.

"I thought as much. Xanatos was an extremely gifted padawan, in all ways. Physically, mentally, emotionally. Strong in the Living Force. But stronger still - much, much stronger - in the Unifying Force. Do you realize what that means?"

Obi-Wan met the Master's gaze firmly. "He had visions."

Ru Caeri nodded. "Indeed, he did. Although, strangely, it appears he never foresaw his own future, only that of others."

"I still don't see where this is going."

The Master's voice dropped to a near whisper, and there was an unmistakable vein of apology threaded through it. "Xanatos foresaw you, Obi-Wan. Insa was convinced of it. He foresaw your place in Qui-Gon's life. He foresaw what was meant to happen in your own."

"But what . . . " Obi-Wan stopped cold, and felt ice grip his heart, as realization flooded through him. "Saischel," he sighed, suddenly unable to catch his breath.

Ru Caeri moved forward to grip the apprentice's arm, sympathy warming his amber eyes. "Yes. Insa believed that they went in search of the one who was meant to be your bondmate, in order to bring her - her specifically - back with them."

A deep silence swelled suddenly around the padawan, a silence that, somehow, excluded even the Jedi Master standing at his elbow. A silence that crept into his heart, and his soul. 

Finally, Obi-Wan pulled back a step, and sketched a shallow bow to Master ru Caeri. "I thank you for sharing your information, Master," said the apprentice. "It may prove useful, in the future."

His face was a mask, completely empty of inflection.

"Obi-Wan," called ru Caeri, as the padawan turned to depart.

"Yes, Master?" Soft. Respectful. Non-committal. Empty.

"We never found any record of where she was buried."

"I know." No trace of emotion was allowed to shadow the response. "But I will."

Ru Caeri merely nodded, and watched the apprentice depart. He had no doubt that the boy would accomplish what he set out to do. If he lived long enough.

The Locabarian Master, like Prince Xanatos of Telos before him, had a certain gift for prophecy. And he didn't like what he now perceived hovering above the young padawan. There was a darkness there, growing larger and deeper and hungrier. It was patient, but only to a point. It would not be denied forever.

 

****************** ********************* *******************

The path that wound around and over the rugged cliffs was treacherous underfoot, its pitted surface slick with spray from the towering breakers that crashed continuously against the base of the granite façade. The aspect, however, was breathtaking, jutting, as it did, out above the roiling surf, allowing anyone bold enough to hike to its outermost point to stare down into the violent nexus of tidal forces and vicious undercurrents. 

N'vell Aji made the hike at least once a day, unconcerned about the treacherous footing. The tempest visible in the raging waters below seemed to call to her; it was, she thought, an apt reflection of her soul. 

Maleonaka Sirvik, however, was less than sanguine about the precarious journey, clinging to handrails, a mixture of abject terror and intense irritation glowing in his luminescent, multi-faceted eyes. Sirvik was a Borlian, primarily human but with a few rather spectacular deviations, including the eyes, that sometimes seemed almost to flouresce, a bi-color mane - bright silver and jet black - that covered head and throat, and exceptionally long, slender hands, each sporting eight talon-tipped digits.

"Will you please stop blathering," said the female, her impatience finally getting the best of her. Sirvik had been whining, nonstop, since they stepped onto the path.

"If I were meant to navigate such wilderness," sniffed the Borlian, "I'd have been born with claws instead of digits."

"Then go back," she snapped.

"We need to discuss this," he insisted.

She drew a deep breath as she reached the look-out point and lost herself in contemplation of the vortex below her.

"Magnificent," she breathed.

"Nauseating," he countered, barely glancing at the maelstrom.

N'Vell spent a full minute formulating a mental picture of lifting the Borlian over the barrier and dropping him into the depths, enhancing the vision with the addition of a ravenous shargill waiting in the depths, as a nice finishing touch.

Finally, she turned to face him. "There's nothing to discuss. We leave tonight for Coruscant."

His nostrils flared, a sure sign of anxiety in a Borlian. "We have been there entirely too much of late. If we're caught . . ."

She laughed coldly. "Then it takes another huge chunk out of my brother's fortune to get us out. But we won't be caught."

Something in her voice made him stare at her sharply. "Did you expect this?"

"Not precisely, but I'm not really surprised. I've told you before, the padawan is the one we must be on guard against. The child can handle the Master."

Sirvik rubbed his hands together, another sure sign of nervousness. "Are you sure this will work?"

She smiled. "The only thing that changes is the timetable. And the distance, of course. But it matters little. I was hoping we'd have a bit more opportunity to 'set the bait', so to speak. But, from what the boy tells me, Qui-Gon has already managed that, quite on his own. He's alienated the apprentice already; it won't take much more to push him completely out of the picture."

"And you're sure he's the only threat?"

She looked at him, patent disgust in her eyes. "These are Jedi, Fool. Of course, he's not the only threat. But he's the one with the most cause for suspicion. And, if we move quickly enough, the rest will never know what hit them."

"What if he figures it out, before we have a chance to move?"

N'Vell returned to her contemplation of the roiling waters, the turmoil of the reflection contrasting with the strange serenity in her eyes. "He won't. That's the beauty of it." Her smile widened. "The proof of my brother's genuis. Whether he's discovered the secret or not, it's working on him. It's a biological imperative that he couldn't resist if he tried. By the time it occurs to him, if it ever does, it'll be much too late."

Sirvik glanced once more at the currents swirling below. "You better be right, my dear. I don't think our 'client' is one to tolerate failure."

N'Vell Aji, Princess of Telos (deposed), remained unperturbed. "You do this for fortune and glory, Mali. Time-honored motives, to be sure. But I do it for different reasons, personal reasons. Deathless reasons. I do not intend to fail."

"Payback," he said softly, a tiny tremor in his voice revealing that even he, who had known her all his life and worked at her side for twenty years, was not completely sanguine about her ability to control the depth of her hatred.

"Payback," she confirmed. "You and I will be richer than we ever imagined, by a substantial magnitude, and I will know that my brother has been avenged. The fortune I will enjoy; the vengence will feed my soul."

Sirvik drew a deep breath and spared a moment of pity for the Jedi who would draw such wrath. For Qui-Gon Jinn, he had little sympathy; from what he had observed, the Jedi was an arrogant self-serving tyrant. But the padawan - now there was a different story. Sirvik, like most of his race, had a keen appreciation for human beauty. He stole a glance at the woman beside him, and knew that she certainly belonged in that category. But no more so than the young Jedi apprentice, who almost seemed to radiate a lovely quality of innocence.

A pity, really. For he doubted that young Kenobi would radiate much of anything, when N'Vell was through with him. 

 

******************* ********************* ****************

 

The journey back to Coruscant wasn't exactly a pleasure cruise, although some modicum of compromise was finally achieved, mostly by virtue of establishing firm borders between the various factions. Obi-Wan and Oomy, with occasional interaction from one or two of the other children, including Yoni, spent most of their time in the crew quarter area of the cruiser. The padawan found that, if he concentrated on monitoring the little girl, and answering her staggering variety of questions about the ship and the area of space they were crossing, and what the Jedi Temple and Coruscant were like, he had little time to mope over the silent fissure yawning between him and his Master.

For his part, Qui-Gon spent most of his time in his cabin, or in the common room that had been allotted for the use of the children. He seemed to be content simply to watch the interaction between Xani and Yoni, and, to a lesser extent, the other children. He seemed, somehow, less comfortable in the presence of Oomy, who definitely shared the sentiment, recoiling visibly whenever she crossed his path. 

The Master pretended not to notice, but Obi-Wan knew better. While he had been almost paranoid in his anxiety over accepting another padawan, after the debacle with Xanatos, Qui-Gon had always been capable of establishing an easy rapport with children, all children. Oomy, however, was having none of it, and the padawan noted the shadow of hurt in his Master's eyes, on the few occasions, that is, when they could not avoid coming face to face.

On the second morning of their trip, with Coruscant now just half-a-day away, the Master strode into the largest of the ship's cargo bays, intent only on working off a little tension, and came nose to nose with his padawan, as Obi-Wan completed a twisting back flip from a cross brace some four meters off the deck. So tight were the mental shields both were maintaining that neither had been previously aware of the other's presence.

The initial shock of almost landing on his Master's head startled the padawan so severely that he stumbled, and would have fallen if not for Qui-Gon's instinctive move to catch him. The firm grasp of the Master's hands on his arms was almost as much a shock as the initial confrontation.

Obi-Wan struggled to regain his composure, as Qui-Gon frowned. "Unless I am mistaken," said the Master, "that move is the 14th counterpoint in the 16th kata."

The apprentice stood quietly, willing his breathing to resume its normal pacing. "Yes, Master."

Eyes of sapphire blue, shadowed now with darker hues, regarded the padawan grimly. "You know better, Obi-Wan. Such a high level kata is dangerous, when performed without supervision."

"Yes, Master." The response was polite, and cool.

"Then why were you doing it?"

Eyes shading now to silver blue lifted to meet those of his Master. There was no hint of an apology in them. "I have learned to do many things on my own, out of necessity."

The Master continued to regard the boy, his face without expression. "So it would seem," he said finally. "You can speak candidly, Obi-Wan. We are alone here. No one to hear us. You obviously have issues with me."

The Padawan actually smiled. "I have issues with you? Is that what you believe?"

"It seems obvious."

Obi-Wan moved to a small bench to retrieve a towel to wipe the sweat from his face and hair and bare torso. "I have no issues with you, Master. I rather believe it's the other way round."

"You defied me." The words dropped like stones in the quiet room.

The Padawan fought to draw a breath. "I disagreed with you. That's not the same thing."

The Master stared at his apprentice, and read the lines of hurt and anguish in the tension of the muscles and tendons in the boy's back and shoulders. "And what happens," said Qui-Gon, "when you 'disagree' in a life-and-death situation? Will you insist that your judgment is the one that must be followed?"

Obi-Wan turned to face his Master and could not quite suppress a small, rueful smile. "Is that going to be the excuse, then? That you can't trust me to follow your lead?"

"I can't." 

But the padawan was not going to make it easy. "You have, for seven years."

"Then it would seem," retorted Qui-Gon, "that we've been extraordinarily lucky."

"Lucky?" echoed the apprentice, his voice hollow. He was immediately innundated with a lightening-fast series of images, of tortures endured and injuries suffered, of desperate efforts and herculean tasks, of missions accomplished or, in some cases, not. "Lucky," he repeated, and knew, finally, that it was really over.

Until this point, he had somehow clung to some tiny shred of hope.

He looked into his Master's eyes and, finally, let it go.

"Yes, Master." He had said it millions of times in his life; he said it no differently this time. But, somehow, they both knew; he would not say it again.

Qui-Gon Jinn watched his apprentice turn and leave the cargo bay; head high, shoulders squared. Watched, and knew, somewhere inside him, that a terrible injustice had been done; that a path of light and hope had been abandoned; that it was his own fault. Knew - but refused to see.

Obi-Wan would be fine; he was strong; he was a Jedi to the depths of his soul; he would find his way. 

The Master sank to his knees, seeking the soul-cleansing purity of meditation, ignoring the single tear that traced a path down his cheek.

 

******************** ***************** ******************

 

For a late afternoon arrival - midweek - there was a surprisingly large group present to greet the children of Mejanis and their escorts.

As Master Jinn led the Chosen Five - minus one - down the boarding ramp, Masters Yoda and Windu led a contingent of Council members forward to study the new arrivals.

In the meantime, Obi-Wan stood motionless in the shadows just within the open hatch, his tiny constant companion latched firmly to his leg, as she had been for much of the trip. He was silent and, for the moment, content to watch, as was the little girl. At his side, First Mate Viszt divided his attention between the crush of Jedi outside the ship, and the altogether fetching vision of loveliness beside him.

Qui-Gon made the introductions quietly, and no one could have failed to notice the proprietary manner with which he presented Xani to the elder Jedi.

If Viszt had not been waiting for it, he never would have heard the faint sigh that escaped Obi-Wan's lips, but the sudden clench of tiny arms around the padawan's knee signaled that Oomy had recognized his distress almost as soon as he felt it.

The first mate turned and stared at the apprentice, until the young Jedi had no choice but to notice his intense scrutiny.

"He doesn't deserve you, you know." Viszt, not being of the Jedi persuasion, had no qualms about allowing his disgust to show in his voice.

Obi-Wan just smiled. He was acutely aware of Viszt's attraction to him, would have been aware even without K'Terra's sardonic quips. It wasn't as if it was anything new or unusual; Obi-Wan had been propositioned and seductively pursued by more species and genders than most people ever encountered in a lifetime. He had learned early on that most such efforts were simply different forms of compliments, and treated them as such. Thus, though he had almost always rejected such advances, he had done so with such style and grace and good humor that few of his admirers ever took offense, and most, sooner or later, counted him among their very good friends.

Now, he continued to regard Viszt steadily, with a small smile.

"If you ever get fed up . . ."

"Thanks, but . . ."

"No strings," the Iegan said quickly, making a huge effort to suppress the lust so obvious in huge emerald eyes. "I know you're straight, though if you ever change your mind, I'm there. OK?"

Obi-Wan shook his head, still smiling. "You might want to doublecheck with your boss. If I ever did walk away from the Temple, anybody who gave me a ride would not be winning any new friends among the Jedi."

"No problem, Sweet Cheeks," said a warm voice from behind him, as Captain K'Terra came though an open hatch from the engine room. "And if it weren't for certain delicate little ears" - she glanced pointedly at Oomy - "I'd tell you where the Jedi could put their objections." 

Obi-Wan tried - and failed - to suppress a chuckle. "Woman, will you stop! I do not want to get blind-sided one day by being greeted as 'Sweet Cheeks, the Jedi'."

She waggled her eyebrows suggestively. "Others just think it, Darlin'. At least, I say it to your face. And, just so there's no mistake about it, Viszt's offer comes with my personal blessing."

The Padawan reached out and traced the line of her rather substantial jaw with a gentle hand. "Thanks, Cap. You're the best."

"You know," said a voice from the open hatch, "I hate it when you're charming."

Ciara Barosse then leapt toward her friend, knowing, as she had known through the years, that he would catch her. And he did, lifting her high in the air in the process.

First Mate Viszt heaved a deep sigh. "Lucky, lucky, lucky padawan," he murmured.

K'Terra grinned. "Which one?"

"Either. Both. Does it matter?"

The two young Jedi were, indeed, a lovely sight, complimenting each other perfectly, but the quick hug and peck of a kiss that they exchanged dispelled any suggestion of romantic entanglement.

Of them all, only Captain K'Terra noticed that the exchange had snared the attention of Master Qui-Gon Jinn, and that his midnight eyes seemed suddenly flooded with almost unbearable anguish as he watched his padawan. When he realized that the Captain had seen and recognized his reaction, he quickly turned away, leaving her to shake her head gently, reflecting on the quality of willful folly. 

Ciara looked down, and felt the powerful scrutiny of storm-cloud eyes. "You seem to have grown an attachment, Obi," she said softly.

Obi-Wan scooped Oomy up and braced her against his shoulder. "Friend Ciara," he said, "meet Friend Oomy."

The little girl solemnly extended a hand - somewhat grimy, as always - and touched Ciara's Padawan braid. "Like Obi's," she observed.

"Exactly like Obi's," replied Ciara, almost spellbound by the child's exquisite face. "By the gods," she breathed, glancing up at her old friend, "she's stunning."

Without a trace of self-consciousness, he nodded, and pressed a kiss against the little girl's temple. Oomy, by way of response, simply wrapped both arms around his throat and sighed her contentment.

Ciara reached out and touched the suppression collar, her eyes filled with questions.

Obi-Wan smiled. "You know, I'm not entirely sure. But I think it was a complete waste of time and effort."

"What do you mean?" asked Ciara.

He fingered the collar. "I don't think it works. Not completely anyway. Not on her."

"Obi," she said with obvious misgivings, "I don't think that's possible. I mean, I don't think anyone can overcome one of those things."

He glanced at Oomy, and allowed an image to form in his mind, an image of the child rolling around with a pet kitling, and Oomy laughed delightedly. It was a long way from empirical proof, of course. But he was convinced anyway. Even with the collar, Oomy was picking up on his thoughts. He didn't understand how or why, but he'd figure it out eventually.

"Possible, are all things," said a rough voice from the open hatch.

The two Padawans, recognizing both the timbre of the voice and the pattern of the speech, turned instantly and settled on one knee as Master Yoda made his way toward them, his gimmer stick thumping on the decking.

Captain K'Terra and Viszt simply waited, both slightly on edge without fully understanding why. 

And the child watched the advance of the tiny Master, eyes wide and filled with wariness.

Yoda moved forward until he was within arm's reach of the little girl, who still stood within the protective circle of Obi-Wan's arms.

"Introduce me, you will, Padawan," said the Master, a curious gentle quality in his tone that was, somehow, exceedingly rare.

"This is Oomy, Master," said Obi-Wan.

One tiny, clawed hand reached out and touched the girl's shoulder. Huge citrus eyes grew suddenly larger, and turned their attention to the Padawan. "Know who she is, you do."

"Yes, Master. But how do you know?"

"Humph!" The Master frowned, and his ears lowered significantly. "Know everything, you do not yet, Young One. When eight hundred years you have lived, perhaps you will have a few abilities not known to others."

"Yes, Master. But . . ."

"Remove her collar, you may, Padawan. It serves no real purpose."

Abruptly Oomy leaned forward and placed her hands on Yoda's shoulders, which was easy for her, since they were roughly the same height. "Not yell at my Obi," she cautioned. Then she smiled. "Love my Obi, you do."

Ciara was not - quite - successful in stifling her groan, or the mental observation that the little girl sounded remarkably like the little troll. Obi-Wan was forced to bite his lip to hold back his laughter, as Yoda spared a withering glance for the female padawan.

"Oomy," said Obi-Wan, determined to ignore the grin tugging at his lips, "you'll need to go with the other children now. OK?"

"Go with Obi," she replied, not in the least inclined to follow his suggestion.

But he was pretty sure he knew how to get around that. "I have to go with Master Qui-Gon."

"No," she said firmly. "You stay with Oomy."

"Child," said Yoda, unaccustomed warmth in his tone, "go with me, you will. Nice it will be for me, not to have to look up to see your face."

Oomy smiled, but still turned eyes filled with uncertainty to gaze at Obi-Wan. "Master Yoda won't let anyone hurt you, Little One," the Padawan assured her, still encircling her tiny form with his arms. "He's a galaxy-class defender of little girls. I promise."

She regarded him solemnly. "You come back to me - soon?"

"Of course. When I've finished my duties."

She leaned forward and laid her forehead against his, placing one hand on each side of his face.

_Love you, Pretty Obi._

It was as clear and recognizable as a spoken word, and the collar still resided around her neck.

He took a deep breath. "Oomy, I thought the collar took away the voices."

She smiled. _Took away the ones I don't want to hear._

"Like who?"

_Dark lady._

Obi-Wan glanced over at Master Yoda, and saw that the diminutive Master was perfectly aware of the silent communication and was allowing it to continue.

"Oomy, who is the Dark Lady?"

But Oomy had apparently reached the end of the conversation, whether Obi-Wan had or not. She turned and extended her hand to Master Yoda. "Go now," she said firmly.

The elderly Master simply nodded and took her hand, as he looked up at Obi-Wan. The padawan knew immediately that, while Yoda had been aware of the messages being exchanged, he had not actually been able to decipher them, and he expected a report, with all possible speed.

Obi-Wan merely nodded, and Yoda led the child down the ramp and into the Temple.

With a final farewell for K'Terra and Viszt, the latter of whom stood in the open hatchway and blatantly ogled the rear view of Obi-Wan's stride, the padawans followed the Masters into the tower.

"You have something for me?" asked Obi-Wan as they entered the main corridor.

"I do, and you owe me at least an interest in your first-born, Kenobi. That was not my idea of a good time."

Concern etched frown lines on his forehead. "You weren't hurt, were you? They swore you'd be . . ."

"The only thing 'hurt," she snapped, "was my pride, that you'd think I'd need their protection."

"Hey," he replied drily, "there are some places in this city that I think I'd be grateful for a little extra protection. Ya know?"

She let her mind drift back to that dark, foreboding warehouse and smiled. "I see your point, I guess."

"You haven't mentioned it to anyone else?"

Now genuine anger sparked in her sable eyes. "Did you or did you not ask me to keep it safe, and secret?"

"Yes, and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to doubt you."

"Yeah, well, maybe you should," she admitted ruefully, "cause it was really hard to keep it from Master Ramal."

"I know. I haven't told Qui-Gon either."

She stopped, and grabbed a handful of his cape, forcing him to pause beside her. "Qui-Gon?"

"Yes." He was deliberately avoiding her eyes.

"No 'Master' Qui-Gon?"

He turned to face her, and she almost recoiled at the devastation she read in his eyes.

"No," she breathed. "He didn't . . ."

"Not yet. But he will."

"Obi, no. He wouldn't."

He took her hand and began walking again, finding it easier to answer her while in motion, while not seeing the welling anguish in her lovely eyes. "I don't think he can help himself, Chi. It's almost like the Force is pushing him into it."

She shook her head violently. "I don't believe that. I won't believe that. It wouldn't lead him to abandon you."

He sighed heavily. "Maybe it would. I don't know any more."

Again she turned, pulling him to a stop beside her. "What will happen to you?"

He extended his hand, and wiped a welling tear from her eye. "You know the answer to that."

"No. They won't allow it."

"I don't think they'll have a choice."

"They can assign you a new Master," she insisted.

But he was shaking his head. "Ciara, I'm twenty years old. Establishing a new training bond, with a new Master, at my age? You and I both know it would be almost impossible. And without the bond, I'd be a danger to myself and my Master. They won't have a choice. They'll cut me loose."

She closed her eyes tight, and gripped his robe with both fists. "Obi-Wan Kenobi, you are the most gifted padawan in the entire Temple. We all know it; we've known it all our lives. The Jedi can't afford to let you go. They need you too much." A small sob caught in her throat. "I need you too much."

He gently laid his forehead against hers and whispered, "You exaggerate, as usual. Now, can we please go retrieve my datachip. I don't know how much time I have, but I made a promise. And I intend to keep it while I still can."

She straightened and managed a small smile. "Are you planning to tell me why I was running courier for the Galactic Ghost?"

He frowned. "Not yet. First I need to know what's in that datachip."

"Wait a minute," she said firmly. "Are you saying you don't trust me to look at it with you?"

"You know better than that."

"Well, I thought I did. Why don't you enlighten me then?"

"Chi," he said softly, "it may be dangerous for you to know."

"Oh," she said, slightly frenetic now, "but it wasn't dangerous for me to carry it through the grungiest back alleys on Coruscant. Right?"

"You're being unreasonable," he intoned, temper sparking.

She leaned forward, and her smile was unnerving. "But I'm the one with the chip."

"And I'm the one that can decrypt it," he shot back.

"Then it looks like we have a stalemate on our hands, Sweetheart."

"You wouldn't!"

"Watch me."

"Ciara . . ."

Her resolve was unshakeable. "If it's dangerous for me, it's dangerous for you. And you are not going into this by yourself. Got it?"

"This isn't your business."

And suddenly, she favored him with her gentlest smile, the one that always managed to melt his heart. "You're my business, Kenobi. My first love."

He grinned, unable to help himself. "You still remember that?"

Now she laughed. "Every girl remembers her first love, Kenobi . . .the first fumble, the first grope, the first 'I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours'. And then, of course, in our case, came the discovery that, somehow, it was like kissing your brother. That's when you really know."

"Know what?"

She laid a hand on his shoulder. "That you've found a friend for life. So don't bother turning on the charm or batting the baby blues, you are not going into . . . whatever the hell it is that you're going into, without me."

Finally, he could only smile. One of the most basic tenets of the Jedi order was also a basic tenet of common sense: always know when you're beaten.

"All right, Pest," he said softly. "While our Masters are otherwise occupied, and the Temple falls all over itself to meet and greet the new prodigies, let's go decrypt a datachip."

As the padawans turned into a side corridor to make their way to Ciara's quarters, a tall, silent figure stood watching from further down the hallway. He had sent the Mejanis children on ahead, with Creche Masters and supervisors, and turned his attention to his padawan. A gentle probe of the training link had revealed that it was even more tightly closed than before - closed and in the first stage, perhaps, of dissolution.

He had not been surprised; it was only to be expected. What had surprised him was the severity of the pain he felt in recognizing the incipient failure.

The corridor was blessedly deserted as he sank to his knees and allowed himself a single moment to absorb the towering grief writhing within him.

"Too late," said the gravelly voice that he suddenly realized he had been expecting. "Too little, too late. Lose him, you have finally managed to do."

"He will be all right."

Master Yoda moved to stand directly in front of the crouching figure who had been his student so many years ago. "No. He will not."

"But . . ."

"Many times," continued the diminutive Master, "have I disagreed with your choices. Argued against your decisions. Many times, have I believed that you were misguided, mistaken. Still, always believed I did, that you did as you felt you must, guided by what the Force told you. Angry, you have made me - many times. But until today, never have you made me ashamed. Until today, never have I believed you capable of such cruelty, to one who offered you only love and loyalty."

"Master, I can't . . ."

"No. Believe that, I will not. It is not that you 'can't' resist this temptation. It's that you won't."

Qui-Gon squared his shoulders and regarded his former Master with something approaching dispassion. "Will I be allowed to train Xani?"

"Undetermined, that remains. Tested he must be, to learn if he is worthy of training."

"His strength in the Force . . ."

"Is not the question."

"Then what . . ."

The tiny Master turned to go. "That you could even ask such a question reveals how completely you have closed your mind."

"I promised to take care of him."

Yoda turned back, and regarded him with steady, unwavering eyes. "Yes. Too bad, it is, that you forgot another promise, made so long ago."

"Xani is . . ."

"Your destiny? Your legacy?" The tiny Master reached out and tapped the kneeling Jedi gently on the shoulder. "Foolish child. So close to the truth you are, but manage to see nothing but that which has been programmed into you. It is not Xani who opens the door to possibility."

"What do you mean?"

But Yoda only continued to walk away, finally calling back over his shoulder. "Learn, you will, but probably not in time. If I could take this bitter cup from you, Child, I would. But avoided, some things cannot be. Only endured."

For a time, Qui-Gon continued kneeling there, his body unnaturally still as his mind spun away in multiple directions.

He was suddenly deep in memory.

He remembered Obi-Wan, and, by the gods, the memories were magnificent. He knew what the Temple called his student - the Perfect Padawan - and knew that the title was almost completely deserved. Obi-Wan had spent the last seven years of his life, learning to be exactly what Qui-Gon Jinn wanted him to be, and discarding anything that didn't fit into that preconception. The Master wondered briefly how the apprentice had managed to bury all the hurt and disappointment that had been generated by all those lessons.

A sudden thought struck him, and astonished him. In the end, he had been allowed to transform his apprentice into his own version of perfection, with the boy's complete, willing co-operation.

His student had not only offered up his life and his blood; he had offered also his entire identity. And he - the Master - had accepted it, and molded it into something entirely new, entirely alien to its owner.

And then, he had tossed it aside.

Who now, was Obi-Wan Kenobi, if no longer assigned a place in life, as determined by his Master?

Suddenly, a mental voice intruded into his thoughts, a voice bitterly, uncharacteristically distorted with rage. _Flatter yourself, do not! Stronger than you ever imagined is he! Survive as a Jedi, he almost certainly won't, but never in any doubt is his survival as a man. That, you cannot take from him._

Shaken more than he cared to admit, Qui-Gon rose and went to find the boy that he believed to be the answer to his lifelong quest, turning his back, literally and figuratively, on the one who had tried to provide that answer - and failed.

 

********************* ******************** ******************

 

Ciara's face was pale, almost gaunt, and huge shadows darkened her eyes. "Oh, gods, Obi. How can anyone . . .?" Words failed her, as she stared at the horrors before her.

Obi-Wan was no less shaken, his hands trembling as he reached out and deactivated the datapad. "I don't know, Chi. I've never seen anything like it. Even the Kessel spice miners are not so brutal."

"Children," she whispered. "Did you see the children?"

He nodded, running a hand through his hair, a sure sign that he was feeling frustrated.

"What?" she said, knowing she need say no more.

He drew a deep breath. "It may not be enough."

She jerked around to stare at him. "What do you mean, not enough? The Council has to take action to stop this . . . this genocide."

"Drimula," he replied softly, "is not a member of the Republic. And the officially recognized government there is hardly going to request Jedi intervention. They're the ones running this horror show."

She rose and went to stare out her bedroom window. Night was falling now, and the sky was a rose-colored palette, streaked with lavender and jade. "Obi, they can't just ignore this. I refuse to believe that they could."

He moved to her side and spoke very softly. "Three years ago, we were sent to Fim-Chrodia, when the government there applied for Republic membership. An initial investigation - you know the drill. There were two sentient species on the planet; one, the one with political and physical control of the planet, which wanted membership; the other, somewhat less numerous and somewhat more primitive, less technically skilled but owning and controlling the majority of the arable land of the planet, adamantly opposed to any off-world alliance. We found that the De'avla - the dominant species - were extremely aggressive, belligerent, prone to hostility, but extremely efficient and technologically gifted. The Heschia, on the other hand, an avian species, and the less dominant of the two, were gentle, artistic, accommodating, the antithesis of their counterparts. We recommended further study, particularly of the Heschian reservations, which were based on some rather remarkable philosophical points."

She nodded. "They only recently were accepted as members. Right?"

He nodded. "The primitives, the Heschia, suddenly just . . . dropped their objections."

"Why?" she asked, knowing by the hollow tone of his voice that something horrible had happened on that far-away world.

"They disappeared. All twenty-eight million of them."

Her eyes were huge. "How do twenty-eight million sentient beings just disappear?"

He turned to face her. "The Heschia were physically very small, no larger than a nerf calf, in fact."

"I don't understand what that has to do with anything."

"The De'avla ate them."

She staggered, and slipped to her knees. "They what?"

"The dominant species, the De'avla, ate the more primitive species, the Heschia."

"And they were still allowed," she whispered, "to join the Republic."

He nodded. "The 'atrocity' - that's what it was called - happened prior to the presentation of the formal petition for acceptance, so it was deemed irrelevant. The systematic slaughter of twenty-eight million sentient beings was simply dismissed as being beside the point."

"And the Council?"

"Did nothing. Not even an official condemnation of the act. It was just . . . ignored."

"But why?"

"Because Fim-Chrodia, at the time of the atrocity, was not a member of the Republic, and thus, not subject to Jedi intervention or censure."

She stared out into the lowering darkness. "I need you to do something for me," she said softly.

"Anything."

"Remind me of why I want to be a Jedi knight."

He draped his arms around her shoulders and hugged her close, feeling the warmth of her tears against his throat. "You don't need me to do that. You know perfectly well why you want to be a knight. But we also both know that we don't live in a perfect galaxy. Things . . . slip through the cracks, sometimes."

"Obi-Wan," she replied, her voice muffled against his tunic, "twenty-eight million beings is hardly something that 'slipped through the crack'."

But he shook his head. "Unfortunately, that's exactly what it is."

"And this?" Her hand gestured toward the datachip. "How do we prevent this monstrosity from slipping through the same crack?"

"I need a precedent," he mused, "but I don't think I'll have time enough to find one."

"Obi-Wan," she said, with a sigh, "it's not as if they're going to throw you out into the street."

He turned to regard her with a small rueful smile. "Well, of course they are, Love. That's how it's done. Didn't you know?"

"You're joking," she replied. "Aren't you?"

But he was shaking his head. "Afraid not. Unless I choose to accept an appointment to the Agri-Corps, or one of the other minor services. But even then, I wouldn't be allowed to stay here. The Temple is for those in training for knighthood, and those who have achieved it. No one else."

"But . . ."

"I don't have time for this, Ciara. I need to see the Council."

Her eyes were dark with introspection. "And how, exactly, do you plan to do that? A padawan must petition for a hearing through his Master."

"Yes, well, we both know that's not feasible, don't we? However," he smiled, and she almost laughed when she recognized it as that roguish smirk that she really, really loved, "I do believe I have been summoned to appear before them, by the little grand troll himself."

He retrieved the datachip and headed for the door, Ciara at his heels. So he stopped. "And where do you think you're going?" he asked.

"With you."

"No way, Pest."

"You aren't going without me," she said smugly.

"Ciara, this whole thing hasn't been sanctioned by my Master, and it certainly hasn't been sanctioned by yours. You're going to get in deep trouble, for no reason. This is not your fight."

"In point of fact," she snapped, "it's not yours either. Unless you just turned Drimulan. But that doesn't seem to be stopping you."

"You aren't going to get mixed up in this."

"I'm already mixed up in it. Or was that some other idiot traipsing around the back alleys of Coruscant, lurking in the shadows for meetings with wanted criminals?"

He reached out and caught her to his chest, his arms tight around her. "Ciara?" he said softly.

"What?" she snapped.

His fingers stroked the back of her neck and found what he was looking for. "Sleep," he whispered, applying a quick thrust of pressure at the nerve nexus beneath his fingers, and a judicious push of Force compulsion.

She crumpled, and he laid her gently on her bed. "Sorry, Love," he murmured, brushing her forehead with a kiss, "but I don't have time to argue."

 

******************** ******************** *****************

 

Obi-Wan stood at the midpoint of the Council Chamber, and tried to suppress his anxiety. He had never stood in this place without his Master present; it was strange to realize that, now, he would never stand here again - with or without.

His eyes met those of Master Yoda, of Mace Windu, of Adi Gallia, the only Masters present for this impromptu meeting, and saw that all of them were just as aware as he was of the finality of this moment.

He had recounted his conversation with Oomy faithfully, as Yoda had requested.

Now they were waiting to learn why he had really come before them.

He took a deep breath. "I have a parting request, my Masters."

Yoda huffed somewhat. "So determined to go, are you?"

The apprentice managed a small smile. "I don't think I'd make a very good farmer."

Mace Windu regarded that lovely young face, and was amazed at the degree of calm that seemed to reside there. "On the contrary, Padawan," he said gently, "I don't believe there is anything that you couldn't be, if you set your mind to it."

Kenobi ducked his head slightly and almost managed to conceal the brightness welling in his eyes. "Unfortunately, Master Windu, that isn't true. There is one thing that I can't be, no matter how much my mind is set. As of this moment, I can't be a Jedi knight. And if I can't be that, then I can't stay here."

Windu finally nodded. "Your Master reported that you had stated your intention to demand a hearing before this Council, to force him to renounce your apprenticeship in a formal setting."

"So I did," replied the Padawan, "but I've since come to see that it would serve no purpose. It would change nothing, except maybe to make things worse. It won't change . . ." He paused and reminded himself of his purpose here.

"I have a report for your inspection, my Masters. My final request to this body is that you review the information in this datachip, and act accordingly. I know that I won't be a part of any action you choose to take, but the need for intervention is much greater than any personal consideration of mine. I can't reveal the source of this data; to do so would endanger many lives and create great hardship for those who managed to amass this information. But I will go on record as stating that I believe the source to be completely reliable. A great tragedy is underway, as we speak, and, if no action is taken, another case of genocide will be added to our galactic history."

"Obi-Wan," said Master Gallia, "why do you present this material in this way? Why was this not submitted by your Master?"

"My Master," he said softly, and the pause in his voice was almost unnoticeable - almost, "has not seen this data. It came to me from a source outside his knowledge, and I chose to bring it directly to you. He has . . . other concerns."

To the padawan's complete surprise, Master Gallia rose from her seat and came to stand before him, and he was even more surprised to read what appeared to be smoldering rage in her eyes. "I don't know if it would be possible, Little One," she said softly, "but I would take you as my padawan learner, if you're willing to try."

He took her hand and raised it to his lips. "I thank you, Master, but I have no wish to see you lose your life because of an incomplete, imperfect training bond. Nor have I any wish to lose mine."

She put her arms around him and kissed his forehead. "This report," she said softly, "it means that much to you?"

He could only nod.

She smiled. "And you have reason to doubt that the Council will act on it, do you not?"

With a slight blush, he nodded again.

She leaned forward and whispered, for his hearing only. "I'll try, Little One. I cannot promise, but I will try."

The apprentice nodded, and turned to depart.

"Obi-Wan." 

The boy stopped. One did not walk out on Master Yoda, no matter what.

The ancient Jedi moved forward and stood looking up at the apprentice. "Kneel, you will."

For a split second, the padawan debated the possibility of just leaping toward the exit and making his escape. He did not know if he could deal with the moment now at hand.

But in the end, the habits of a lifetime were not so easily discarded.

He knelt.

A small, three-fingered hand reached out and grasped his Padawan braid, then settled to his shoulder.

"The Force," said Yoda gruffly, "shines within you, Child. Much loved, are you."

Obi-Wan smiled, despite the stinging in his eyes. "Thank you, Master. I wish . . ."

"Know what you wish, I do. Wish the same."

"I don't . . ." There was suddenly no way to continue, as he felt the pain well up within him and threaten to consume him completely, and he seemed to collapse in on himself, somehow growing smaller - more vulnerable.

"Loved many of you, I have," said the wizened Master. "By the thousands, have I seen Jedi come and go. But never have I loved one, as I've loved you, Little One. The noblest, the brightest, you have been. My child of Light."

Obi-Wan straightened, and stared into that wizened countenance. "You'll take care of him?" he whispered.

The troll merely nodded, and then did something that Obi-Wan had never known him to do before. He reached up, and kissed the boy's forehead. "The Force will be with you always, my Obi-Wan. Doubt it not."

When the apprentice departed, the three Masters turned to look at each other, sadness lingering around them.

Adi Gallia was the first to act, her movements sharp and lacking her customary fluid grace. She took the datachip from the table where Obi-Wan had left it, and turned to face her counterparts. "I will look into this," she said firmly, "And I warn you now that, if it is in any way possible to accede to his request, I will push to do so. For make no mistake about it, my Friends, the Jedi Order has just committed a grievous offense; we sacrificed one of our own. And we will most certainly one day be called to pay for it. To honor his final request is the least we can do."

"Adi . . . ." Mace Windu fell silent when he correctly read the rage in her eyes.

"Right now," she continued, ignoring the interruption, "I'm going to my private meditation garden, where I am going to do my very best to release my anger to the Force. This is absolutely necessary. Because if I don't - if I can't - then my next move is going to be to find that egotistical, callous, ungrateful son of a Sith, and carve him into bite-sized canapes. Understood?"

When she was gone, the two remaining exchanged glances.

"Any bets?" said Mace Windu, trying to lighten the moment that felt like lead in his heart.

Master Yoda was staring out into the darkness, his anguish wrapped around him like a cape. "Qui-Gon Jinn, I would not wish to be right now."

Windu nodded. "She's just furious enough to give him a sound thrashing."

"Ummm," said the tiny Master, "but nothing will it be, compared to what he will face later."

"What do you mean, Master?"

"When he wakes," said Yoda softly. "When his eyes are finally opened. When he sees what he has done, and what he has lost. No consolation will there be then, ever. More lost will he be, than his padawan. More hopeless."

The tiny Master made his way to the exit, and left Windu staring into the night, feeling an emptiness within and without.

The great circular chamber was heavy shadowed now, and Windu had to suppress an urge to shiver. He was not ordinarily given to fancy, nor flights of imagination. Yet, he could almost feel a sense of history hovering around him, a feeling of impending tragedy, a ghost of what might have been.

On this day, the Jedi had suffered a grave loss. Only time would reveal exactly how grave it would turn out to be.

Still gripped by a sense of foreboding, the dark Master made his exit, and the huge chamber lay deserted and empty, and maybe, deep in the darkness, below the level of conscious perception, echoing with the whispers of lost hopes.

 

******************** ***************** ****************** 

tbc


	12. Tears in the Heart

Chapter 12: Tears in the Heart

 

_Tears from the depth of some divine despair_  
_Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes,_  
_In looking on the happy autumn-fields,_  
_And thinking of the days that are no more._

Alfred, Lord Tennyson --- _The Princess_ , Part IV"

 

He seemed to be existing in the exact middle of a well of silence, silence that was undisturbed by the mundane sounds of life; silence that continued and endured, in spite of the hum of background noise that was so typical of the great Temple at this hour of the evening. 

There were footsteps in the corridor, the murmur of voices, the occasional outburst of laughter, shouts of greeting - all the ordinary unremarkable sounds. 

He heard them, and knew that, for just this moment, they were neither ordinary nor unremarkable, but extraordinarily precious, for, even as he listened, they were fading into the realm of memory. After tonight, he would hear them no more.

The silence continued, the silence within him.

The quarters that had been his home for the past seven years seemed particularly silent, particularly empty, bereft of the great spirit that habitually dwelled there. For this moment, though, no one dwelled there; it was a moment of becoming, of almost going, of not yet arriving. A moment between.

Obi-Wan looked at the two small carry-alls that sat waiting by his bedroom door.

He forced a small smile, in lieu of the tears that threatened to well and consume him.

Two little bags. Extraordinarily little to contain the accumulated possessions of a lifetime.

"Just stop," he murmured, annoyed with himself. "Just stop - now."

Jerking himself out of the grasp of melancholy, he shrugged into his Jedi robe, and headed for the doorway, grim determination evident in his posture. He was not going to simply slink away in the night, as if he had something to be ashamed of. Of course, being rejected by one's Master, after seven years of apprenticeship, probably was something to be ashamed of, but he was not going to hide himself away. He would seek out those who had a right to expect him to bid them farewell, and he would walk out of the Temple - and out of the Jedi, and out of his life - with head high. He was beaten, and he knew it, but he was damned if anyone else was going to see it in his face.

He had taken his leave of the Council. What remained was the more personal arena; he must now say good-bye to his friends.

The Council, he observed, sighing deeply, had been a piece of cake, by comparison.

He palmed the doorlatch and came face to face with a most unexpected visitor. A Mon Calamarian padawan with huge, liquid eyes stood in the corridor, apparently trying to decide whether or not to knock.

"Bant," he said softly. He paused, and just looked at her, eyes shadowed and bruised, studying the gentle girl who, along with Ciara, Garen, and Reeft, had been the heart of his childhood; the girl who had grown into a gifted padawan, only to lose her Master and to never quite be able to forgive her childhood companion for what she saw as his complicity in the loss.

"Obi-Wan," she replied, barely audible.

It appeared that neither could think of a single thing to say, beyond the abbreviated greeting.

"Is it true?" she asked, finally.

He didn't bother to ask for clarification. The Temple rumor mill was obviously functioning at maximum efficiency.

"Yes. It's true."

"What will you do?"

He shrugged slightly. "Something else. I don't know yet."

"Where will you go?"

"I haven't decided."

She glanced inside and noted the packed bags. "Leaving it til the last minute, aren't you?"

"Would you like to come in?" he asked, suddenly remembering his manners.

"No. I can't stay," she replied. "I just . . ." She paused, and ran a tremulous hand across her eyes. "I wanted to say good-bye," she continued, the words tumbling out in a rush.

He nodded. "Thanks. I appreciate that."

She tilted her head and stared for a moment. "What happened to us, Obi?" she said finally. "We loved each other so much - back then."

"Life got in the way," he answered. Then he raised his head and looked her straight in the eye. "I never stopped loving you, Bant. But I've always understood how you felt. To lose your Master like that . . ." He stopped, as the realization struck him afresh. Now he was the one losing his Master. Not in the same tragic manner, of course; he would not be required to ignite a funeral pyre for Qui-Gon.

Bant, however, had never known the final indignity of being rejected by her Master.

"I'm sorry," he said finally. "I know that's not enough, but it's all I have."

Tentatively she reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. "I wouldn't have wished this for you, Obi. I hope you know that."

He nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak.

She stepped back hastily, sensing that neither of them was that far from emotional overload. "If you're staying on Coruscant . . ."

"No. I'm not," he said quickly.

"Then where . . . ."

For the first time, he gave her a small smile, a tiny twinkle of the Obi-Wan she remembered. "Some things you're better off not knowing," he said.

Again, she regarded him solemnly. "You're going somewhere you probably shouldn't," she concluded.

He managed to dredge up a lop-sided grin, and her heart almost leapt into her throat. There it was - there was the Obi who lived so often in her memory. "Be careful," she said finally. "I wouldn't want you to get yourself killed or anything."

He took a deep breath. "If I do," he said evenly, "you'll probably never hear about it. It's a big galaxy. So you don't worry about me, OK? You know I'm like a kitling; I always land on my feet."

"Yeah," she sighed. "Right."

She turned away, but then paused and spoke without turning back to face him. "I never stopped loving you either, Obi. I just haven't ever figured out how to forgive you, in my heart. But I know this: Master Jinn never deserved you, and you don't deserve this."

She hurried away, before he could even begin to formulate an answer.

 

******************* ************************ ***************

 

The dining hall was full to bursting at this time of the evening, and the din was almost painful as Obi-Wan entered.

It grew much too quiet, much too quickly.

They didn't exactly turn and stare; the Jedi, even very young ones, were entirely too courteous and well-trained to examine the subject of their interest as if he were a bug under a microscope. But boisterous laughter and raucous conversation came to a sudden halt, to resume at a much more moderate level as the padawan strode across the room to the table that he and his friends had made their own, lo, those many years ago.

Garen and Reeft were in the midst of their evening meal, and Ciara, judging from the untouched food on her plate, was just beginning. Although, what she was actually doing was looking at it as if she couldn't decide whether to eat it or throw it at someone. Like the ginger-haired figure approaching her now.

He could have been as Force-blind as a stone, and still picked up on the waves of pure rage sheeting off her. 

"Don't start," he said easily as he sank into the chair beside her.

"That," she said, through clenched teeth, "was a dirty trick."

"Maybe," he agreed, "but it was the only way I could think of to get out of there without you."

"But . . "

"Ciara," he interrupted firmly, "one padawan tossed out of the Order is enough for one day."

Garen threw down his silverware with a clank, and looked at Obi-Wan with dark drifts of anguish in his almost black eyes. "You're really going," he said, as if he had not allowed himself to believe it. "You're just going to walk out, and leave us."

Obi-Wan met his friend's gaze squarely. "Can you think of an alternative?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I can."

"OK. Let's hear it."

"You fight for what you want, what you deserve."

Obi-Wan smiled. "Fight what? Fight who? You want me to take a lightsaber to a thirteen-year-old kid? Or maybe I just beat some sense into my Master. Is that what you're suggesting?"

"You can't just . . . give up."

"Garen, I'm not the one giving up."

The dark-haired padawan rose abruptly. "Let's get out of here."

Food forgotten, they all left together. And, as they crossed the room, it was as if something that had been frozen within those around them suddenly thawed. First by ones and twos, then by the half-dozen, and finally by whole groups, padawans and knights and Masters stepped forward to bid farewell to the young man who had touched so many of their lives. The short walk - that should have consumed only moments - took a half-hour to complete, as everyone, it seemed, wanted to reach out to the one who was so intimately a part of them all, but would soon be lost to them completely. Obi-Wan remained dry-eyed and composed throughout, somehow, but his friends were not so tightly controlled.

By the time, they emerged into the corridor, Ciara's face was awash with tears, and Reeft's wasn't much better. Only Garen maintained his stoic demeanor, but it was blind rage that glinted in his eyes, that served to suborn the anguish, for the moment.

"What now?" asked Reeft, as they paused in the hallway.

"I have to go down to the Creche," said Obi-Wan. "I can't go without telling them."

"Oh, great," sniffled Ciara, "now I get to cry with a whole nursery full of babies. My nose is going to look like a burgleberry."

But Garen was having none of the sentimentality; he knew he dared not allow it to touch him. "What about a match?" he said firmly.

Obi-Wan smiled. "I'm leaving, and you want to fight?"

"Sure. Why waste a perfectly good chance for me to beat the snot out of you?"

The smile became a grin. "A real fight?"

Garen's eyes lit up. "We'll have to make sure none of the Masters are around."

"Wait a minute, you guys," said Ciara. "The last time you two tried this, you set fire to Master Windu's aramilan tree."

"We'll be careful," said Obi. 

"That's what you said the last time," she snapped.

"Come on, Chi," Obi-Wan coaxed. "I have to turn in my blade before I leave. One last match, for old time's sake."

"Master Ramal is going to have my head," she groaned.

"Then you don't have to watch," said Garen, entirely reasonably.

"In your dreams, Padawan," she sneered, and then, as she was sometimes wont to do, she took charge. "Obi, you go to the Creche, and say your farewells. We'll go get your lightsaber - and ours - and see if we can't come up with a suitable distraction to keep everyone away from the training salle."

"Hold it," he said abruptly, catching at her arm as she was turning away. "Ours - as in all of you?"

Her grin confirmed that she was really beginning to get into the spirit of the moment. "If you two chauvinists think you're going to have all the fun, think again."

"You guys do realize," he retorted, "that there isn't much anybody can do to me, as punishment. But the rest of you are taking a big risk."

Garen leaned forward and clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Risk is our business." And he laughed, the hard brilliance of fury in his eyes softening just slightly. "Heard that in a holo-vid once, and always wanted to say it."

Ciara's eyes widened abruptly.

"Uh, oh," groaned Obi-Wan.

"What?" said Reeft.

"She's got that look."

Reeft glanced at Ciara, reading only a certain smugness in her expression.

"What look?"

Obi-Wan could not resist a grin. "The one that says inspiration just struck."

"You just go," she almost barked, before breaking into a kitling-in-the-cream smile. "Let us take care of everything else."

He hesitated, opening his mouth to argue. He really didn't want to get the rest of them in trouble. The fact that his own place among the Jedi was now forfeit did not mean that he wanted them to risk theirs.

Yet, in the end, he simply turned and hurried down the corridor, his objections unvoiced, for he suddenly realized, somewhat belatedly, that this was their form of farewell to him, and that it was something they needed as much as he did. If punishment had to be endured in exchange for the opportunity, then so be it.

 

********************* ******************** *******************

 

Master Lao-Miel stood well back in the shadows, in a darkened alcove, her hands braced on the ample shoulders of her Gajalak Padawan, in a vain effort to impart comfort for a depth of sorrow which simply would not be comforted. Diora had managed, finally, to suppress her shrill keening, and was now reduced to deep, shuddering breaths as she fought to maintain some semblance of control; the tiny residents of the Creche were already sufficiently grief-stricken. They needed reassurance from their caregivers, not further evidence of mourning. Across the room, in a dim corner of his own, Boman Waskith sat in an old-fashioned rocking chair, two tiny Bothans curled in his arms, weeping silently. The Creche Masters must provide anchors against the tempest of despair now raging around their tiny charges.

But, oh, my, it was really, really difficult. And growing more difficult by the moment.

For the last of the children now stood awaiting the attention of the young man who had come to them tonight, to say good-bye.

They did not understand - none were old enough to understand - why he was leaving them; but they did somehow understand that the pain they were enduring was merely a pale reflection of what he was going through.

Except maybe for Jorgal, who leaned against the wall with his head drooping to his chest, hands at his side, fisted and white with tension.

Obi-Wan knelt before the child and waited. He made no move to get closer, knowing that the little boy was trying to work his way through a towering rage, as well as a bottomless grief, and would not appreciate being prodded or hurried.

The boy's face was awash with tears; yet he made no sound. When the moment came, it came suddenly; he launched himself into the young Jedi's arms with a wordless cry.

Obi-Wan pressed the tiny little body to his chest and held on tightly, allowing the toddler to work out both his anger and his anguish.

"You don't love us any more," Jorgal accused, fighting for breath between sobs.

Obi-Wan smoothed the boy's hair back from his face with an achingly gentle hand. "You know better than that, Little One."

"Then why you leaving?"

The Padawan closed his eyes against the vision of pain he saw in that pinched little face. "Jorgi, if I could stay, I would. You know that."

The child suddenly curled himself around Obi-Wan's torso and settled in his lap, as he had so many, many times before. "I go with you," he announced, convinced that he had found the perfect solution.

Obi-Wan bent and dropped a kiss on the crown of the child's head, as he murmured, "You can't go where I'm going, Jorgi. It's not a place for children."

"Then you not go either."

Realizing that he was being entangled in a circuitous logic trap, the padawan lifted the little boy and set him on his feet, while looking directly into his eyes. "You, Little One," he said firmly, "are going to grow up to be a great Jedi. Remember? To do that, you have to stay here, and study, and grow, and learn."

Tiny fingers reached for the padawan braid. "Wanted you to teach me," the boy insisted. "Wanted my Obi to be my Master."

And, oh, my, didn't that send a fierce stab of agony straight through the heart! He had, occasionally, allowed himself to dream that he might, one day, be capable of training a padawan of his own. With a shake of his head, he recoiled from that image, while managing, somehow, not to recoil from the boy.

"You'll have a wonderful Master," he said firmly, "who will love you, and care for you, and be very proud of you. But you have to study really hard, and learn all your lessons to get there. Okay?"

Jorgal seemed to make an effort to pull himself together, then turned that piercing, dark-eyed gaze on Obi-Wan. The fingers clutching the braid tightened. "You never coming back," he said, very softly. "You think you going to die out there."

The trademark smile only wobbled a little. "Who, me? No way. I'm too ornery to die. You know that."

"You never coming back."

"Jorgal . . ."

But the little boy was beyond consolation, and beyond cajoling. "You promise me," he said suddenly, a spark of resolve rising in his dark eyes. "Promise me."

"Promise what, Jorgi?"

"Promise you come back."

The Padawan lowered his eyes, unable to confront that fierce gaze. "Jorgi . . "

"Promise, or I never stop crying."

Obi-Wan felt a twitch of amusement at the boy's temerity. "I don't think . . ."

"I'll cry til I get sick," warned the child, tears welling now.

The padawan reached out and drew the child to him. "That's blackmail, Little Runt," he said softly.

Master Lao-Miel chose that moment to come forward out of the shadows, and bestow a gentle smile on both the padawan and his tiny companion. "He means it, you know," she remarked. "I think you better promise."

"But I don't know if . . ."

But she held up a restraining hand. "Who knows?" she said softly. "On any given day, the promise you make tonight could be the difference between you finding the courage to go on, or deciding to just give up. Hedge your bets, and make the promise, Obi. Leave him a dream to cling to."

What she didn't say was that it was a dream that might be shared by many among them.

"And if it's a promise I can't keep?"

"Then you honor it by giving it your best effort. None could ask more."

For a moment, it appeared he would not relent; a Jedi did not, after all, give his word lightly, no matter what the provocation.

But then, the realization struck him anew; he was no longer Jedi.

With a small grimace, masking a huge pain, he nodded. "I promise," he said, and hugged the boy tight against him.

Jorgal simply curled against the breadth of his chest and let himself go limp. Within moments, the child was breathing softly, completely boneless and totally relaxed.

"Oh, my," said Master Lao, "where am I ever going to find somebody else who can do that? He's going to spend a lot of sleepless nights without you around, Obi."

The Padawan rose and carried the child to his bunk, lost for a moment in the sweet scent of freshly-bathed toddler. When the little boy was snuggled beneath his blankets, an odd stuffed something-or-other clutched in his arms, Obi-Wan sat for a moment, eyes feasting on the tableau of innocence. 

Master Lao moved forward and adjusted his Padawan braid with a feather-like touch. "You come back to us all, my Obi," she said softly, and leaned forward to press a kiss to his temple. "How am I going to manage without you?"

He rose and gave her a swift, fierce hug, before leaving the Creche at a rapidly accelerating pace. By the time, he reached the junction of the next corridor, he was in a flat-out, Force-enhanced sprint.

It was very fast indeed, but not fast enough. His desolation kept pace, matching him step for step.

 

**************** ******************** **************

 

The halls and corridors of the Temple were seldom completely deserted, and Obi-Wan was forced to slow when he reached the main hallway. Yet, it was not as crowded as he might have expected, although there seemed to be a mild buzz of excitement in the air. Several people moved toward the main stairwell, with great purpose, their pace brisk and determined.

As he approached the training suites, a flock of padawans, still fumbling with sashes and belts, came bolting through the doorway.

"Hey, what's up?" he called, catching the eye of a twi'lek girl he recognized from his quantum physics class.

Despite the fact that she was obviously in a great hurry, she paused when she recognized him and took the time to give him a brief hug. "Hey, Friend," she said quickly. "Sorry about this mess. You sure don't deserve it."

He merely nodded while keeping the question in his eyes. "Oh," she laughed, "it's Vareth Rooz. He's down in the main concourse."

"Who?" The name was vaguely familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.

She grinned. "Only the Perfect Padawan, forever off on some grand adventure, wouldn't know who Vareth Rooz is."

"Enlighten me," he said, as he took her sash from her fumbling fingers and wrapped it snugly around her waist.

"Well," she said, noting in passing that, at any other time, the prospect of Obi-Wan Kenobi wrapping anything around her would have been sufficiently diverting to make her forget her original purpose. "He's just the biggest holo-vid star of the year, that's all. Have you seen _Blasters at Twenty Paces_ or _The Prince of Alderaan_?

Obi-Wan secured her sash with a smile. "Must have missed 'em." 

Something in his voice - some hint of the sweet laughter he was suppressing - made her look up into his eyes (and think, for at least the thousandth time, that eyes that color ought to be illegal) and blush. "While the rest of us were watching them, you were probably living them. Anyway, come with us. Maybe we'll get close enough to talk to him."

"Thanks," he answered, adjusting her belt to just the perfect angle, "but no, thanks. I've got a few things to take care of."

She nodded, suddenly feeling shallow and ashamed, leaned forward and planted a brief - but thorough - kiss on his lips. "Come back to us some day," she whispered, before running to catch up to her friends.

Obi-Wan watched them plunge down the stairwell, a speculative gleam in his eyes. When he walked into the training suite, he found it virtually deserted, just as he expected, except for the three figures lounging on the exercise pads.

He dropped to his knees beside Ciara, and gave her a sardonic smile. "Vareth Rooz?" he said archly. "That's the best you could come up with."

She was busy shrugging out of her Jedi robe. "Hey, it worked, didn't it? The simplest plan is often the best, you know."

"How'd you manage it?"

She grinned. "I called three fellow padawans, none particularly renowned for their discretion, and told them that I knew this wonderful secret that I was just bursting to tell, but they had to promise that they wouldn't say a word."

"And?"

She actually giggled. "In less than five minutes, three quarters of the Temple was in the main concourse."

"OK," said Garen, rising and extending his lightsaber toward the ceiling. "Are we going to sit, or fight?"

"You're the challenger," said Obi-Wan, discarding his robe. "Name your poison. Free for all, or doubles."

The dark-haired Padawan just grinned, sparking a similar response from Obi-Wan. "I know. Silly question, huh?"

The four took points at the four corners of the central mat, paused for a brief - very brief - meditative moment, and ignited the sabers. The actinic brilliance of azure was complemented by the glow of amethyst, jade, and topaz.

"Timer?" asked Obi-Wan diffidently.

"One hour," replied Ciara. "If we're very lucky, we might have that much time before they're on to us."

Obi-Wan nodded, and reached out with a tendril of Force to set the big overhead timer. "At zero," he said softly, watching the sweep of the hand.

When the hand snapped perpendicular, the huge chamber, which had been completely still, erupted with explosive movement, as all four Padawans assumed combat positions, each squaring off against the other three.

Anyone watching would have been suitably impressed by the unique individuality of each swordsman, as each fought with a personal style completely different from any other. The initial movements of the duel, though appearing random, actually worked to sort the four into sets of two, content to match strength against strength, and vulnerability against vulnerability. Although there wasn't much of the latter. 

Ciara and Reeft wound up on the center mat, her topaz blade moving with amazing speed to counter his marginally greater physical strength, each in the grip of the Force, each lost to anything beyond the moment and the sphere of the clashing blades.

For Obi-Wan and Garen, however, there was only one place to be - the place they both preferred - on the walkways that criss-crossed the great chamber, at various levels. Force-driven leaps carried them up easily, and guided them smoothly from one platform to the next. 

The two of them had sparred many times, and knew each other rather too well to allow for many surprises. Still, both had the ability to step outside their customary skills and find something new, from time to time. It was a Jedi trait, that both had cultivated extremely well.

Thus, when Garen successfully completed a side-stepping spin that cut the footing from beneath Obi-Wan, the light-haired Padawan leapt upward and grabbed a scrolled iron light fixture, using it to push off to land on a still higher platform. As he landed, Garen's saber came sailing toward him, straight and true. A quick Force push tossed it aside, but Garen was right there to retrieve it.

"You've been practicing," Obi-Wan laughed, backing away from the amethyst blade.

"Just so I could whip your ass," replied his friend, eyes flashing now with something dark. "So you just going to stand there and let me beat you?"

"Wasn't planning on it," Obi-Wan answered, dancing aside from an overhead feint.

"Why not? Isn't that what you're doing with your Master?" And there was no mistaking the emotion in Garen's voice for anything other than what it was: pure, undiluted fury.

"We've had this discussion already." Obi-Wan easily paried a quick thrust.

"No. You've just continued to dodge the issue. You're just going to let him take it all away from you, aren't you?"

Just the faintest spark of anger began to grow within Obi-Wan. "It's not like I have a choice."

Garen laughed, and pressed forward, his blade moving at ever greater speed. "Not very Jedi of you. There are always choices; isn't that what they teach us?"

Obi-Wan found himself now at the end of a walkway, a chest-high railing at his back. He braced against the bars and said, "Are you really pissed off at me, or just at life in general?"

"Either. Both." Garen was not going to back down. "Fight, damn it!"

Obi-Wan drew a deep breath. "OK, Buddy. But just remember, this was your idea."

And he calmly swung his blade downward and severed the platform extension on which he stood. As it plunged toward the floor, he catapulted himself at an angle to the trajectory of the falling platform, and landed on an observation balcony near the entrance, then extended an arm to guide the falling wreckage and cushion its landing.

Garen, for a moment, was speechless as Ciara squawked loudly when the piece of walkway settled to the floor, though well away from the spot where she and Reeft were still engaged. Then, Garen was sailing across the intervening open space toward Obi-Wan. "You really are a crazy little bastard," he yelled. "How are we going to explain that?"

"We aren't," replied Obi, leaping forward to engage the amethyst blade, before Garen was well grounded. "We'll fix it - somehow."

"Typical Obi," shouted Reeft, wincing slightly as Ciara succeeded in dragging her blade across the back of his upper arm. "Act first, think later."

"We are so-o-o-o in trouble," agreed Ciara.

At this point, Obi-Wan and Garen were balanced on a slim, angled cross-brace that spanned a gap between the balcony and another higher platform at the center of the chamber. As Ciara launched herself into a twisting leap to cut off Reeft's access to a nearby ramp, Garen pushed off into a forward flip, twisting as he spun, in an attempt to come up behind and beneath Obi-Wan's guard.

But Obi-Wan was too fast, and his response time, too brief. The azure blade was already poised and slicing upward as amethyst brilliance struck down. The resulting clash literally rattled the teeth of both combatants, and the recoil sent them both slamming into a quite lovely carved filigree railing and through it, as if it had been constructed of nothing more solid than paper.

"Shit!" said Ciara as more debris rained down. "Are you two planning to destroy everything in sight? How are we going to explain all this?"

Obi-Wan spared a moment to adjust his descent, angling toward a lower balcony, while avoiding a side swipe from his opponent, before responding. 

"Hey," he said, ducking under Garen's arm to come up behind him, and tap him lightly with his blade, "blame it all on me. They can't very well expel me twice."

"No," said a baritone voice from the doorway, "but they might decide you need some company."

Four lightsabers flickered and died, as Master Ramal Dyprio walked slowly forward to inspect the twisted mass of walkway remnants strewn across the center of the chamber.

For a moment, the Corellian was silent, face expressionless, revealing nothing.

"Kenobi," he said finally, lifting his head to gaze directly at the padawan.

Wordlessly, Obi-Wan vaulted over the balcony railing and came to rest directly before the new arrival.

"Master," said Ciara, stepping forward, "please don't . . ."

"Ciara," said Obi-wan, shaking his head, "don't. This is entirely my fault, Master Ramal."

Dyprio, eight inches taller than the young padawan now facing him and probably half again as heavy, walked around the mess in the floor and continued by circling young Kenobi. "Do you think, Padawan," said Dyprio, "that I consider Ciara so weak-minded that I'd believe you could lead her into this without her co-operation?"

"No, Master Ramal, but she just went along with what I wanted."

"Um, hmmm. Just as both these boys did, I'm sure."

"Yes, Sir."

Ramal returned to his starting point and gazed down into the resolute young face that was absolutely not going to back down, no matter what. "That's your story," he said finally, "and you're sticking to it, hmm?"

"Yes, Sir."

A quick look at Garen and Reeft revealed that both were close to bursting with outrage that he would attempt to take the blame for them, but, at the same time, neither wished to call him a liar. Lying to a Jedi Master was a grave offence within the Temple.

"Ciara?"

"He's protecting us, Master."

"Yes. I know he is." He leaned forward and stared into sea-change eyes. "What I'd really like to know is why he thinks you need protecting."

Obi-Wan's eyes widened. "You aren't . . ."

Ramal gestured at the mess on the floor. "Can you fix that?"

At last, Obi-Wan grinned. "I don't know."

And was grinned at, in return. "Neither do I. But I can move it, like this." And with the wave of a hand, the 'mess' lifted into the air and was deposited on a catwalk high above.

The Corellian took a couple of steps forward to lean over and whisper in his padawan's ear, much to Obi-Wan's discomfort. But the apprentice was surprised when his friend grinned and gazed up at her Master with love glowing bright in her eyes. "Yes, Master," she breathed. "Please."

Ramal turned back to face Obi-Wan and studied his face for a few moments. "Tell me, young one," he said finally, "do you know the Chi'ambura?"

Obi-Wan felt his breath catch suddenly in his chest. The Chi'ambura - the 22nd kata - was the highest level of achievement for a padawan - the most difficult, and the most beautiful, of all Jedi disciplines, to be performed ultimately by Master and padawan in tandem. It was more dance than exercise, requiring perfect balance and timing and perfect communication and precision between the participants.

"I know the routine," Obi-Wan replied.

Ramal smiled. "That's not what I asked."

"I've never performed it, Master Ramal," the Padawan replied finally, knowing exactly what the Master wanted to know. He had perfected his knowledge of the kata more than two years ago, but his Master had never acceded to his request to actually perform it.

Ramal Dyprio leaned forward and put his hands on the apprentice's shoulders. "Would you like to?"

Now it was Obi-Wan's turn to stare, open-mouthed. "But we can't . . ."

"Why?"

"We have no bond," Obi said quickly, eyes darting to Ciara, wondering at the calm he read in her eyes. She should be screaming with anger that her Master would even consider performing this ritual with another Master's padawan. But he saw only serenity in her expression.

"I love you, Obi," she said softly. "I want you to have this."

"But . . ."

"A temporary bond can be forged, young Kenobi," said Dyprio, "if you want it."

Obi-Wan looked down at the lightsaber he still held in his hand, and thought about what the end of this day would bring, about the dozens and hundreds of things that he would never again be allowed to do. The Chi'ambura might just be at the top of the list. He raised his eyes, and studied the face of the swarthy Master who was making such an incredibly generous offer.

"Why would you do this for me?" he asked finally.

Dyprio stepped forward quickly and cupped one hand around the Padawan's neck, and pulled the boy's face against his shoulder. "I went to the Council," he whispered. "And, as I knew they would, they refused me, but I want you to know that I asked. I even demanded, but, in the end, they wouldn't relent. But I would have trained you both, had they allowed it. And, if it weren't for the fact that it would put Ciara's status at risk, I would do it anyway, without their consent."

Obi-Wan, for just a moment, clung to that strong shoulder, and swallowed the bitter tears that rose in his eyes, as the Corellian simply held him, and stroked the muscles of his back with a gentle hand.

"Now," said Dyprio, "do you want to do this kata?"

"Yes, Master," said the apprentice softly. "More than anything."

"Then prepare yourself," said the Master. "We're both going to have to compensate for size variations. I'm somewhat larger than your Master, and you're definitely larger than Ciara."

Luminous eyes - crystal blue at the moment - regarded him solemnly. "You trust me to do this?"

The swarthy Master's smile was gentle. "I'd trust you with my life, Little One. With no hesitation. This is child's play, by comparison."

Ciara moved forward then, as did Garen and Reeft, all suddenly stricken mute. They all recognized what Dyprio had done for their young friend. The Chi'ambura was the Jedi rite of passage, the ritual that proclaimed that a padawan learner had earned the right to be treated as an adult.

None of them could ever remember it being performed by anyone not joined in a Master/Padawan bond.

The knighthood would probably not be pleased with Master Dyprio's actions, but the glow in the eyes of Obi-Wan Kenobi rendered that consideration pointless. Nevertheless, this ritual was usually only performed under the rigid supervision of the Jedi hierarchy. However, it was obvious to all of them that Obi-Wan's Master would never acknowledge the strides he had made or the honors he had earned, but someone would. Right here;right now - whether the hierarchy approved or not. This would be a private ceremonial rite, rather than the public celebration it should have been, but it would live forever in the memory of those privileged to witness it as a personal rite of passage.

The padawan's friends gently helped him remove his sash and belt and tunics and boots. Traditionally, the Chi'ambura was performed with a minimum of clothing, with bare chest and bare feet, granting maximum exposure of skin and tissue to the risks inherent in such a complex routine, involving such precise maneuvers with a full power lightsaber. One did not perform the Chi'ambura with a powered down blade, as such a condition would defeat the purpose of the exercise.

The Chi'ambura demonstrated an incredible level of skill, but an even higher level of trust in one's partner.

When he was ready, Obi-Wan knelt and closed his eyes, reaching for the center of his existence, the tranquility that always rose within him when he achieved true meditation. He was only vaguely aware when his friends leaned over him and murmured soft words of encouragement.

When Master Ramal knelt before him, the Padawan was immediately conscious of a great wave of warmth and comfort that seemed to wrap around him and offer immediate solace for the emotional bruises he bore. A wave of the Master's hand reduced the lighting of the great chamber until all was shadow except for the center of the arena where the two faced each other.

"Padawan," said Dyprio gently, "you must drop your shielding, or this won't be possible."

Obi-Wan took a deep breath. This was the hard part. Dropping one's shields, even to one's own Master, was not a simple process. With anyone else, it became a monumental struggle.

"Let me in, Little One," said the Master, "and I can help you."

The apprentice merely nodded, and willed himself to relax as he felt the Master's hands descend on his shoulders.

They sat motionless for several minutes, eyes closed, centering on the simple process of breathing, of being, of hearing their own heartbeats gradually slow - and become one, as their breathing became attuned. Both reached out for the Force and allowed it to coalesce within them. And when it was done, Obi-Wan heard the mental voice of his temporary mentor, soft as a sigh in his mind.

_Now, Child._

Obi-Wan felt himself rise, without being conscious of willing himself up. His eyes remained closed.

The lightsaber in his hands, gripped firmly with both, slowly extended above his head and ignited with a snap-hiss. At the exact same moment, he became aware of an emerald glow against his closed lids.

 _If you grow weary, you must tell me._ The mental voice was filled with warmth and approval.  
"There is no success or failure here. There is only the Force, and our trust and belief in each other. Do you understand this, Padawan?" 

"Yes, Master."

"Then begin."

The opening steps were slow and measured - point and counterpoint - as the two figures moved in a graceful choreography of lunges and leaps, spins and recoils, with brilliant blades flashing and circling but never - quite - meeting. 

It was done in complete silence, except for the whirr of the blades.

The pace accelerated steadily, as the two moved in tandem, each gesture precise, each measure perfectly balanced against its countermeasure, as time and time again, blades moved in perfect co-ordination, in intricate traceries of light, repeatedly coming close enough to bare skin for the static charge of the weapon to be felt against the sensitive nerve endings, but never close enough to cause actual pain, the promise of a kiss, without the contact.

Obi-Wan's eyes remained closed, as the pace increased yet again. And as the routine progressed, the participants became little more than a blur, yet still perfectly balanced, perfectly aligned, perfectly in time - perfectly silent.

Ciara, Garen, and Reeft stood in rapt silence, tears rising in their eyes.

The Chi'ambura continued as lightsabers began weaving beautiful complex patterns through which the two moved without conscious effort. The Force almost seemed visible in the darkness, as it spun around them, caressed them, and cradled them in its grasp, and directed every tiny nuance of movement.

It was Reeft who finally noticed that the performance was no longer so private. In complete silence, a crowd had gathered, arriving in a steady stream of small groups.

 _Ready, Padawan?_ Ramal Dyprio - like his young counterpart - was still breathing easily, almost placid in his demeanor. 

_Ready, Master Ramal. I trust you implicitly._

Obi-Wan then launched himself into a towering vertical leap, spinning in mid-air to fall unresisting toward the ignited blade of the Master. Dyprio extinguished the saber at the last possible micro-second, allowing the bright shaft to collapse only as the apprentice's body seemed doomed to impale itself on that deadly brilliance.

Obi-Wan, in a free-fall plunge, never hit the floor, but was caught out of the air by Master Ramal, and set gently on his feet, where he immediately sank to his knees and presented his re-ignited blade to the Master.

For a moment, there was only silence.

"Rise, Padawan," said Dyprio, his approval warm in his voice, "and take your place among the adults of the Jedi Order."

And, for the first time since beginning the exercise, Obi-Wan opened his eyes, eyes dimmed by a wash of tears, only to find that the vast arena was no longer empty. Instead, it was packed wall-to-wall with a thick crowd of beings who had been his family for as long as he could remember.

The applause erupted, and seemed destined to go on forever, as wave after wave of friends and acquaintances came forward to offer their congratulations and their love and their tears.

Obi-Wan allowed them to express their feelings and to congratulate him, but his eyes strayed continuously to the entrance, watching, in vain, for the appearance of one he was fairly certain he would not see.

He was right.

Finally, suppressing a small sigh, the padawan turned and moved to stand before Master Dyprio. 

He had noted the presence of a number of Council members in the crowd; a couple had even approached to speak to him. Yet, he knew as he knelt before Ciara's Master that he was doing the right thing, making the only statement he would be allowed to make, on this occasion.

"Padawan?" said the Master, not unkindly.

Wordlessly, Obi-Wan opened the power cell compartment of his lightsaber, and extracted the sapphire crystals from their brackets. He then closed the grip, and laid both the hilt and the crystals at Ramal's feet.

"As a Jedi apprentice, I constructed this weapon," Obi-Wan said solemnly, following the script precisely. "As I depart, I am no longer empowered to use it. I beseech you, Master, to accept this offering, as a token of my esteem, and to conserve its power."

He heard Ciara's gasp, and knew that, in her heart, she had still not believed this moment would come.

He looked up, and found Dyprio's gaze fixed on him, a nuance of anger flickering in those dark eyes. "Rise, Jedi," said the Master abruptly, loudly.

Obi-Wan, in his shock, almost leapt to his feet. "Master?" he questioned, gripped by mass confusion.

Dyprio clasped his shoulders firmly. "They may be able to remove you from the Jedi, Child," he said solemnly, "but they'll never be able to remove the Jedi from you. I'm given to know few things in this life, but I know this. I'll accept your saber, with honor, but only to keep it safe. Until your return. If you're really sure you wish to give this to me!"

Obi-Wan smiled, and was astonished to realize that he had actually begun to accept his fate, when it seemed that no one else would. "There is no one else who would wish to keep it," he said firmly. "And I don't know how to thank you for tonight, Master. This was . . .every padawan dreams of this occasion. If not for you . . "

"Shhh, you earned it, Padawan. I've never seen it done better."

"Nor have I". 

Obi-Wan almost flinched, but Ramal Dyprio merely smiled. No one in the Temple could possibly mistake that voice.

"Master Yoda," said Dyprio, bowing slightly.

"Unorthodox, hmmm?" The little green Master eyed the Corellian sternly, then dropped his eyes to gaze at the lightsaber components Dyprio still held.

Yoda turned to face Obi-Wan, who had already dropped to one knee; breaking the habits of a lifetime would take more than a few hours.

"Sure of this, are you?" One clawed hand gestured toward the weapon.

Obi-Wan simply nodded.

"Talked to him, have you?"

The padawan's smile was slightly bitter. "For what, Master? It's over. There's nothing more to say."

"Change his mind, you might."

But Obi-Wan was now past the point of no return. He wanted no more reprieves, for he was convinced they would only be temporary, at best.

"For an hour maybe. Or a day. No more than that, though, until he looks up and sees the reincarnation of one he loved more than his own life. Then we're right back where we started. Thanks, but no thanks. I won't be bounced around any more."

The tiny Master nodded, and looked again at Ramal Dyprio, who was leaning against the wall, apparently completely at ease. Nevertheless, the Corellian was slightly amazed to see the glow of approval in the Council leader's citrus eyes. He thought it rather remarkable that he might actually get away with what he had done tonight without drawing an official reprimand.

He looked once more at young Kenobi, and knew instinctively that his good fortune was due to the high esteem in which the young padawan was held. If he tried it with anyone else - ever - he would feel the full weight of the Council's displeasure.

Just as he would surely feel it if he gave in and allowed himself to pursue the one other course of action he so desired on this memorable night. Giving the boy a chance to prove himself, to leave the knighthood with the taste of victory fresh on his lips, had been his very great pleasure; hurling the Master off the highest tower of the Temple was the only thing he could think of that would feel even better.

"When do you go?" he asked the apprentice finally.

"In the morning," replied Obi-Wan.

It went without saying that he would spend only one more night in the quarters of his Master; no one asked why.

"Ummmm," said Yoda abruptly, "one more good-bye you must say. The child awaits you."

Obi-Wan sighed, and knew that everything else this evening had only been preliminary to what lay ahead.

Oomy would not take his leaving well, and there was a better than even chance that his visit to the area where the children were being kept would result in a confrontation with his Master - a confrontation he devoutly wished to avoid. There was, he reasoned, nothing left for them to say to each other.

"More than one," said another voice, and the padawan felt a stab of guilt; he had not really forgotten her; he just didn't know how to say it.

"Hi, Mira," he murmured, raising his eyes to meet her gaze, braced against the hurt he expected to see there.

He was right.

She simply stood there, looking at him with those huge eyes that dwarfed the rest of her face, and allowed them to speak for her.

He moved toward her and sank to his knees once more, so that the top of her head could just clear his shoulder. 

"Were you really going to go without saying good-bye?" she asked, still watching him.

"I don't know how to say it," he replied in a near whisper. "Not to you."

She folded her arms. "The same as anybody else, I guess. You just open your mouth, and spit it out."

"Is that how you'll do it?"

"Sure. It's just a word."

"Right. And you're just a healer."

She nodded. "Like you're just a padawan."

So he stuck out his hand. "Good-bye, Healer Soljan."

And she took it. "Good-bye, Padawan Kenobi."

They actually shook hands, then simply stared at each other, hands still clasped. Finally, reluctantly, she reached out with her spare hand and tucked his braid behind his ear. "What will you do with that?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I guess I'll just cut it off. It'll only be in the way from now on."

She adjusted it again. "I always loved that braid."

"Me too," he replied after a pause, a sudden hoarseness in his throat.

And, at last, the tears rose in her eyes. "Who's going to take care of you, my Obi?"

She studied his face, so grown up now, and all she could see was the child he had been, the tiny boy who had wandered into her sickbay so long ago and stolen her heart, for all time. She had loved many of the children of the Temple, tended them, healed them, comforted them, yelled at them, soothed them, and - occasionally - mourned them, but she had never loved another as she'd loved this one.

"Guess it's time I learned to take care of myself," he answered, fighting back his own tears.

He had never known his mother, and the only other woman who had ever come close to serving in that capacity had been taken from him four long years before. He had gone to Mirilent with all the problems that pre-adolescent and adolescent boys ordinarily took to their mothers, or, in some cases, their fathers. And she had come through every time; had never rejected him or ignored him or ridiculed him or scoffed at him, though she was not above an occasional joke at his expense. She had been the surrogate parent, and she had loved him. And approved of him. And fought for him. And bullied him. And teased him unmercifully when she thought he needed it. 

She had filled the spaces left vacant by his Master's natural reserve.

She folded him in her arms now, and felt her tears mix with his own. "I could just kill him," she murmured. "I'll never understand how he could do this."

"Just let it go," he replied, face buried against her shoulder. "I don't want to think about that. Not any more."

"You're entirely too forgiving," she answered. "You should have let me kick him in the balls all those times I wanted to."

Despite himself, he chuckled softly, the mental image of this tiny tyrant assaulting his towering Master more than he could deal with at the moment.

Feeling his control teetering on the fine edge of oblivion, he pulled back and moved to rise.

"Wait," she said firmly, grabbing the braid and holding on for dear life.

"What?" he said, with a tiny smile.

"I need a promise from you."

"Mira . ."

"This is non-negotiable, Padawan," she interrupted. "You will make me this promise."

"What promise?"

"If you ever need me, you have to promise you'll send for me. I didn't spend all those hours and weeks and months patching your fine little ass back together to let it wither away from a case of jungle rot out on the Rim somewhere. Got it?"

"Mira," he laughed, "that's . ."

She yanked on the braid, hard. "Non-negotiable," she repeated.

He peered into her eyes. "You're serious," he observed finally.

"I am."

"You know that's completely impractical, even impossible."

She leaned forward and laid her forehead against his. "Let me tell you what's impossible," she murmured. "Impossible is allowing you to be lost forever. Impossible would be sitting here and doing nothing while you wasted away. You promise me - and you send for me, and I'll be there. No matter what. Understood?"

He smiled. "And if the Jedi have other ideas?"

"I've told you before," she said. "I'm a healer first, a woman second, wife and mother third, and Jedi? Somewhere down the list. Now be a good boy, open your mouth, and repeat after me. I promise, Mira."

For good measure, she yanked the braid again.

"All right," he almost squeaked. "I promise."

Ramal Dyprio chuckled, and flashed the healer a quick thumbs-up. It was almost as if a conspiracy was coming to life around them, a confederacy of those determined to rescue Obi-Wan Kenobi from the waste bin in which his Master had discarded him, with or without the consent of the object of their interest.

Master Yoda simply watched, and could not quite manage to conceal his smile.

 

***************** ****************** ***************

It didn't start out as a procession. It was just a group of people who all happened to be going in the same direction - sort of.

Actually, it was one person going in a particular direction, and the remainder just drifting along in his wake.

Obi-Wan's stride was steady, determined, revealing nothing of the anxiety that was rising steadily within him.

Oomy was waiting, and he owed her at least the courtesy of a face-to-face farewell. She had, after all, agreed to come to the Temple on the basis of his assurances. She would not be pleased with the prospect of his departure, and he had to admit he had absolutely no idea what kind of uproar that might cause. That the child had great powers he had no doubt; what they might be and how she might react to unpleasant news, he hadn't a clue.

And she wouldn't be alone, of course. The other children would undoubtedly be present. Which meant that other people might be present, as well.

He pushed his way into the largest of the Meditation gardens and paused to get his bearings. 

It was not as if this place were not as familiar to him as his own bedroom; he had spent many contented hours here. But he had seldom explored its perimeter, and had no memory of the suite of classrooms and private quarters that overlooked the peaceful area, accessible only by way of a spiral staircase and a retractable walkway.

While still fully enclosed by and integrated with the Jedi Temple, the suite provided the Jedi with the capacity to seal it off from the Temple proper. In addition to the physical separation, which was discernible to anyone who bothered to look, it also contained another element of isolation, not so easily detected; the entire suite was reinforced with a ceramic-based polymer compound which served to dampen Force reception. In addition, it was equipped with a full network of Force inhibitors.

It was as close to a null-Force atmosphere as the Jedi could bear to construct, and none of them were comfortable within its confines.

It was, however, the ideal area for housing the children, until they could be tested and evaluated.

Obi-Wan let his eyes sweep the garden, and observed, to his surprise, that the inhibitor network had not been activated. 

Which allowed him to hear, with amazing clarity, the very moment when young Oomy threatened to hold her breath until she turned blue if someone didn't go get her Obi - right now.

The Padawan turned to his entourage, Ciara and Mira first among it, and smiled. "I'm being summoned," he said. "I'll be back down shortly. You could come with me, but I doubt you'd enjoy it."

Ciara actually shuddered. "I love ya, Kiddo, but I'm not going up there."

"Just make it snappy, OK," said Garen. "I think I've got a bottle of Alloriam brandy with our names on it. It'd be a shame to waste your last night in the Temple on sobriety!"

Obi-Wan grinned, and, with a wave of his hand, bounded up the spiral staircase. At the top, some twenty meters above the garden floor, he engaged the mechanism that extended the crosswalk, and had the satisfaction of noting that Oomy was fully aware of his approach.

By the gods, the child was so strong in the Force, there was no way of knowing what she might be able to do.

When the walkway locked in place, he strode across firmly, allowing himself no time for second thoughts. He would not behave like a scared mouslet just because his Master - whom, he suddenly realized, he could no longer sense - might be present in the room he was approaching.

Nevertheless, when he pushed open the door, and found no towering Jedi on the other side, he allowed himself a small sigh of relief. It was almost sufficient to offset his unease as he noted the effect of the dampening field, and the remoteness of his connection to the Force.

He had barely cleared the doorway when Oomy launched herself and was in his arms, with such force that she almost knocked him down. Gingerly, he lowered himself to a convenient bench and unclasped her arms from his throat.

"Hey," he said, finally managing to release her choke hold, "what's all this? What's wrong?"

"My Obi going away," she said, lips pursed in a pout. "Going soon."

"Oomy . . ."

"Why you not stay with Oomy?"

He smiled and smoothed her hair. "You don't need me here, Oomy. There are lots of people who can't wait to take care of you."

"Want Obi," she said, the pout growing more pronounced.

He hugged her to him. "I know, but sometimes we don't get what we want, Little One. Sometimes, life just . . ."

"Sucks," she snapped.

He laughed softly. "Yeah. It does. But listen, you're going to like it here. Really. They're going to teach you some wonderful things. It'll be great for you."

"Not great for you," she observed.

He shook his head. "It was," he replied. "For a long, long time, it was better than great. It was perfect. Just as it will be for you."

"Don' want perfect. Want you," she whined.

"I know, Oomy. But you're just going to have to trust me when I tell you that you'll forget all about me in a couple of days. There'll be so much to do and see, you won't even remember who I am."

She looked up, and he was almost transfixed by something flaring deep in her eyes, something that spoke of deepening years and steadfast yearning. "Never forget you," she said, and it was almost as if someone else was staring at him through her eyes and speaking to him with her voice.

He drew a deep breath. "And I'll never forget you, but I have to go, Oomy. I can't stay here any more. I'm sorry."

"He makes you go," she said slowly.

"No one makes me . . ."

" _He_ makes you," she repeated, and fixed him with a stern glare. "I can make him."

From across the room, Xani came forward. "Oomy, you just better watch it. You just better . . ."

"Sit down, Xani," said Obi-Wan, not unpleasantly. "This is a private conversation."

The child of Xanatos turned toward the padawan and stared. "There are no private conversations here, little padawan. Haven't you figured that out yet? You think all this stuff around us is going to contain us? Think again."

Obi-Wan regarded the boy calmly. "How do you know about the 'stuff'?"

Xani grinned, but there was no humor in his face. "We can hear it. Just like we can hear you, and all the others."

The apprentice pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Very impressive. But I don't think you're the one who can really hear it."

"What do you mean?" There was a world of belligerence in the question.

"I think Oomy is the one that hears it, and passes it along to you. Isn't she?"

"She's nothing," snapped Xani, rage flaring in his eyes.

Obi-Wan grinned. "Gotcha!"

"You better just get out of here, before you get hurt."

"You know, Xani," said the apprentice, smiling, "your father, despite being a complete jerk, had a reputation for being quite charming. You might want to work on that."

The padawan rose, and extended his hand to Oomy. "Walk me out," he said gently, as he nodded to the other children, and spared a wink for Yoni.

"I'll miss you, Obi," said the little girl, as they moved onto the walkway.

"I'll miss you too, Honey," he answered.

And, once more, the eyes that stared at him spoke of someone else, someone far away from this place and this moment. "Come back to me," she said. "Someday."

"I'll try," he answered, and kissed her forehead gently before turning to walk away.

He was half way down the crosswalk when he felt it, a huge, agonized blackness erupted in his mind, and a piercing scream cut through him like a knife.

"Noooooo!"

He couldn't tell where the sound originated; not could he see anything for the smothering darkness that enveloped him.

Something - some thing, not flesh and bone, but essence of darkness - crashed into him, and he felt himself thrown against the railing of the crosswalk; felt himself start to slide over the top, then felt himself grabbed and slammed to the floor of the walkway, by a Force that had no body. At the same time, something that was flesh and bone collided with him, and he knew, somehow, that he must grab and hold whatever it was, to prevent some horrible tragedy. He grabbed and clung, but something else intervened and yanked whatever he was holding away from him.

He fought to open his eyes, and thought he saw Oomy writhing on the floor of the walkway, screaming, eyes blind with horror. And there was Xani, hands clutching at his ears, jerking at the little girl, shouting unintelligible words.

Suddenly, Xani broke from the child and raced toward Obi-Wan, his eyes ablaze with undiluted fury. The blackness rose again, and the Padawan felt himself grabbed and shoved, and barely managed to push aside the flailing arms that pummeled him and fists that clutched at him.

He reeled backward, then turned and, through a tear in the darkness, saw Yoni dangling over the edge of the railing, her face contorted with the effort to maintain her hold on the bottom rail. He reached for her, felt his hand graze hers, but when he grabbed, he caught only empty space. He tried then to reach out through the Force, to slow her descent, but felt his effort meet with a barrier that seemed to enclose him and block his access to the Force.

The blackness and the shriek within him suddenly swelled to excruciating levels, and he fell away into darkness.

 

*************** ****************** ***************

 

From the garden, the perspective was different, and no one quite knew what was happening, until that terrible screaming started, piercing screams, blood-curdling screams.

Master Qui-Gon Jinn had spent the last hour deep in meditation, his efforts devoted to finding serenity within himself, serenity that had been elusive of late. But he had finally managed to achieve a moderate level of calm, to enable him to consider all the options that lay before him.

He would go to the Council, he had finally decided. They must be made to see reason. The child, Xanatos, was far too great a gift to be discarded; the Jedi were spread too thin across the galaxy as it was. Such talents must be developed.

But Obi-Wan was also a gift. And the Council would simply have to bend, to allow him to be knighted immediately. True, he had yet many things to learn, but he was capable of learning the rest for himself.

He no longer required the attentions of a Master.

Yes. That's what he would do, and he would be able to have his padawan - and keep his padawan. Perfect.

He was walking back into the heart of the garden when he felt it. The Master/Padawan bond had been still and silent for days, and it didn't exactly open now. It just - flexed - and something vile and dank and horrible assailed his consciousness.

He looked up, but the crosswalk was not brightly lighted, and he could barely see the figures there, until one of them plunged over the railing and hung helpless, clinging with one hand.

But the next image was unmistakable; it burned itself into his mind, and there it would reside until the end of time. Obi-Wan was crouching at the railing, looking back toward the source of the horrible screaming, when Xani rushed forward and reached for the padawan - Qui-Gon Jinn's padawan - who grabbed the child and thrust him aside, causing him to tumble over the railing. Obi-Wan then fell backward, before lurching forward again only to watch as the other child slipped and fell, and plunged to the unforgiving surface some twenty meters below.

The world suddenly tilted, and the Master's legs refused to function. No. It could not be. He wouldn't allow this to be true.

Finally, he was able to move, to race toward the small pool where the two children had landed.

 

***************** ****************** ****************

 

Someone grabbed Xani first, and pulled him from the water, blood pouring from a gash in his head.

Yoni was next, and, as she was lifted, she moaned. 

She thought it very strange that she was wet. How did she get wet? She shouldn't be wet. How had it happened? Oh, yes. Xani had tried to kill Obi-Wan. Lovely, sweet Obi-Wan, who had tried to grab her, despite the waves of Dark energy that were battering him into submission.

Someone was shouting at her, someone very tall and very loud. But she had to tell Obi-Wan. She had to warn him; he didn't deserve all this. Xani was wrong.

"Who did this to you?" someone asked.

But she didn't have time to answer that question. She had to warn him. She had to get his attention.

She opened her eyes and saw his lovely smile. Yes, she'd have time to tell him - just enough time. She smiled, and said, "Obi-Wan".

Oh, my, she thought suddenly. Apparently, she'd been wrong. It seemed that she wouldn't have time enough after all.

Her eyelids fluttered - and closed - for the last time.

 

***************** ******************** *****************

 

Obi-Wan came to his senses gradually, his head reeling and his body clutched with nausea, but he roused himself quickly when he discovered Oomy lying motionless across his body.

The darkness lingered in his consciousness like ashes, but he forced himself to stand, lifting the little girl gently.

He managed to stagger down the crosswalk and make his way down the stairs. Luckily, Mirilent was waiting for him at the bottom, and took the child from him.

"She's breathing," she assured him. "What happened? You look terrible."

He just shook his head, still fighting off disorientation.

Ahead of him, he saw the crowd shift, as another healer tended to someone lying on the floor by the pool. A second figure lay perfectly still, obviously beyond the need for medical intervention.

Yoni, he realized. Even wringing wet, the hair was unmistakable.

He moved forward, trying to reach her, to tell her how sorry he was that his efforts were too little, too late, and found himself blocked by a mountain that would not be moved. He raised his eyes, and stared into depths of sapphire hell, in the form of his Master's eyes.

Qui-Gon Jinn stared at the boy who had been like a son to him, a boy now transformed into a monster; a filthy butcher who must have always lurked beneath that innocent façade.

The Master acted instinctively, without thought, and struck out with a massive fist that sent the boy crashing through a retaining wall. 

Obi-Wan hardly reacted at all, crouching dazed and disoriented, eyes strangely unfocussed, as the Master stalked toward him. When the towering Jedi would have jerked the apprentice to his feet, for another blow, a strong, iron fist closed on Master Jinn's robe and spun him about.

"Me first," said Ramal Dyprio. "Unless you have something against picking on someone closer to your own size."

For a moment, it was a near thing, so great was Jinn's rage. But, finally, he nodded, and turned to stare at the bloodied visage of his ex-padawan, managing somehow to avoid looking into eyes now mirror-bright with pain. "You are dead to me," he said calmly. "That you could do this, shows me that I never knew you at all."

He stood motionless for a moment, his eyes closed, and every Force-sensitive individual within the Temple felt the violence of the destruction of the Master/Padawan training bond, as he ripped it from his apprentice's mind. But what the rest of the Temple felt was no more than a dim reflection of the agony that impaled young Kenobi, an agony such as he had never known before.

The Master then turned and walked away, without another glance, and followed the medical team bearing Xani to sickbay.

Ciara and Garen rushed to Obi-Wan's side, and the girl used her robe to blot away the blood that was pouring from a gouge over his eye.

"Obi," she said gently, "he didn't mean it."

Obi-Wan accepted their help in getting to his feet, then pushed free of their arms.

"Yes," he said softly, "he did."

At the doorway to the garden, Adi Gallia watched Qui-Gon Jinn stalk toward her, and deliberately stepped in his path.

"Excuse me," he said roughly.

"Shortly," she said firmly. "After I inform you that I intend to file formal charges against you with the Council."

His eyes flared, bright with anger. "You saw what he did."

"No," she replied, "and neither did you. You saw what you wanted to see, what allowed you to do what you want to do, with a clear conscience."

"Do as you will, then," he snapped.

"Oh, don't worry. I will. And, on top of that, let me say that I think you are an absolutely grade A, number one bastard."

As Qui-Gon pushed through the doorway, he was forced to observe that he had never before heard Adi use foul language.

*************** ********************* ******************

Obi-Wan watched his Master disappear through the doorway. Correction - his former Master. There was not, now, even an echo of the bond between them; there was only the excruciating pain of the rupture.

He then turned and walked away. He spoke to no one. He answered no questions, offered no comments. He just walked away. Out of the garden. Out of the Temple. Out of the Jedi. Out of his life.

And, since no one had the right to stop him, nor any words with which to comfort him, they let him go, and the light of the Jedi dimmed just slightly, in a galaxy growing ever darker.

*************** ******************* ******************  
tbc


	13. Mute Farewells

Chapter 13: Mute Farewells

 

_But two are walking apart forever  
And wave their hands for a mute farewell._

\-----Jean Ingelow - _Divided_

 

N'Vell Aji, deposed princess of Telos and sister of Prince Xanatos, also of Telos, also deposed - not to mention dead - was renowned throughout the known galaxy as a woman of great beauty. A product of the same gene pool that created her infamous brother, himself no slouch in the physical beauty department, she could hardly have been otherwise.

Nevertheless, even the most besotted of her many admirers would have been hard-pressed to find her beautiful at this particular moment, as the princess was in the midst of a vicious temper tantrum, the brilliant scarlet of her gown serving only to emphasize the fire in her eyes.

"I will kill the little bastard," she screamed, not for the first time, with renewed vigor, causing the members of her domestic staff to cringe in dread. Her Royal Highness - as the staff called her, though not to her face - was not known for her physical restraint, but _was_ known for being unparticular in choosing her targets, when the mood struck her.

"How dare that little savage interfere with my plans? How dare he?"

"N'vell, my dear," said Mali Sirvik, "calm yourself. He is, after all, the recreation of your dear brother, who was not exactly a model of propriety himself."

To his credit, he did not blanche - well, not exactly - when she turned to stare at him, ice vying with the flames of rage in her eyes. "He almost destroyed my prize," she retorted, "and put himself at risk, as well. Did the little moron actually think Kenobi would just stand there and allow himself to be struck down? This is a senior Jedi padawan, and he certainly didn't reach that stage by being stupid or meek. The Jedi may project an image of serenity, but if you scratch the surface deep enough, you strike pure warrior. The little monster would have known that, if he ever bothered to listen to anything but his own ego."

Sirvik nodded his agreement, smoothing the dramatic ebony and platinum of his mane with nimble fingers. "Which may all be moot, at this point. Can you get any indication of how badly he's hurt?"

She paused and appeared to be lost in concentration, only to shake her head emphatically after a few moments. "Nothing. Not until one of them wakes."

The Borlian's faceted eyes grew speculative. "What do you suppose caused her reaction? That's never happened before."

N'vell, who had been pacing, stopped suddenly and gazed out into the darkness beyond the terrace of her Coruscant penthouse, the boldness of her crimson gown a dramatic buffer between the ebony of the night, perfectly mirrored in the sweep of her hair, and the ivory delicacy of her skin. "She's never been caught in a nexus of two opposing Force commands before."

"Yours and young Xani's, I presume."

She nodded. "But that's not all of it."

"Meaning?"

She drew a deep breath, and actually appeared to be chewing on a thumbnail.

Sirvik's generous eyebrows almost crawled into his hairline.

"There may be a factor in her connection to Kenobi that we failed to anticipate."

Mali Sirvik felt the beginnings of a monster headache stir behind his eyes; he didn't like the sound of this at all. "Which factor?"

She continued to stare into the night, but her eyes seemed to see more than was actually there. 

"The biological connection may work both ways. It was obviously working on him; otherwise he'd have zeroed in on the focus of the problem already. However, it may also be working on her."

"How?"

"Xani was trying to kill Kenobi; I did at least get that much from the link before she shut down."

"Well, as I said, that's hardly surprising. Since you refused to allow him to keep the padawan as his own personal pet, I'd say it was almost inevitable that he'd try, sooner or later. What's your point?"

"I think," she said slowly, "that that's the reason she collapsed. She refused the command, and redirected it. Obviously, the attack against Yoni upset her, but the distress she felt wasn't enough to enable her to resist the order. It was the energy that the little fool tried to direct against Kenobi that set her off. It was reflected right back at him. He's lucky she didn't break his fool neck."

Sirvik started to smile, then thought better of it. "You're serious," he said, thoughtfully.

"I am."

"But her responses to you are coded into her DNA. How could she resist you, or Xani?"

"She couldn't," she answered, moving to the bar where she poured herself a generous serving of something dark and potent. "Unless there is something else coded in her DNA, something even stronger than the imperative we placed there."

"The mating bond?" he asked, obviously skeptical. "That bond won't be active for several more years, or even longer, depending on how long it takes her to reach the first stage of puberty."

"Suppose it's not just a mating bond, Mali," she mused. "Suppose it's a lifebond?"

He sniffed loudly, and adjusted the elaborate ribbon-edged lace of his shirt cuff. "I've never seen any proof that such bonds actually exist. Romantic drivel, if you ask me."

"Ummm," she said, neither agreeing nor arguing, "let's hope you're correct, and that this was just a fluke. If not, we may yet have some major problems to overcome."

"Look on the bright side, Poppet," he said as he sipped from his own snifter of brandy. "You did accomplish what you initially set out to do, and, providing Xani and Oomy survive the ordeal, the cost was negligible, as predicted. Master Fathead has effectively jettisoned his padawan, leaving him wide open to your charms. That much, at least, you have achieved."

She nodded. "Yes, and I trust that you made sure your operatives know how important their target is. If they lose him . . ."

"Not to worry, my Pet. They're quite professional, very skilled, and sufficiently terrified of you to make sure that failure is not possible."

She sipped her brandy, and rolled it on her tongue, enjoying its smoky bite. "They're tailing a Jedi, Mali. That means there are no absolutes. They understand that?"

"A wounded Jedi, Love. That makes a huge difference, you know. The boy is probably stunned and confused. He won't be a problem."

She sighed. "Mali, those are probably the most famous 'last words' in the galaxy, when it comes to predicting the outcome of an encounter with a Jedi. You better hope you're right."

The Borlian grew thoughtful. "Are you sure you don't want him apprehended? A Jedi in the hand, you know."

She smiled, but there was neither warmth nor amusement in her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous, Mali Dear. If he sees me as his captor, how am I ever going to coax him into my bed? And he must come to me voluntarily; that's at least half the fun of this oh so lovely form of revenge. No. I can only achieve my goals by proceeding with delicacy. He must come to me, and see me as his savior."

Mali Sirvik laughed aloud. "And how exactly are you going to manage that? The moment he sees you, he's going to know who you are, and what you are."

But she remained unperturbed. "By the time he sees me, Dear Mali, I intend to be someone else, temporarily, of course. But long enough to get what I want. The Master is well on his way now, down the path to his own destruction. Once our plan is fully implemented, I intend to be present when the whole truth is revealed to dear, dear Qui-Gon, when Xani tells him exactly what was done to him, and makes him see what he did in turn. And then, we're going to dangle our bait. What do you suppose he will do, to recover his lost padawan? Of course, we won't actually allow him to save the boy, but it will be ever so satisfying to force him to watch as I take the apprentice's innocence, not to mention, his life."

The Borlian drained his glass. "You're an evil woman, N'vell, and I thank the gods every day that we're on the same side. Although I must say, it's rather a pity about the padawan. He's really quite lovely, you know."

N'Vell was - almost - purring. "Indeed I do, Old Friend. Indeed I do."

 

**************** *********************** **********************

 

The waiting room of the Healers' wing in the Jedi temple was like every medical waiting room in every hospital or infirmary in the galaxy, bland, boring, and uncomfortable, and stocked with last year's holomags and advertising pamphlets masquerading as 'educational material'. The only thing that might be considered an improvement over other, more institutional establishments was that, here at least, there was no annoying piped-in music. There was, instead, silence - ordinarily conducive to meditation or, at least, introspection. But not tonight, for some reason. Tonight the silence was simply empty and heavy, almost ominous.

Master Qui-Gon Jinn watched as the chronometer worked its way through another minute that seemed as if it should have been at least three or four, but wasn't. He had heard other nights referred to as 'endless'; undoubtedly, he had even used the phrase himself, but he had never before felt like an insect suspended in amber, with time and motion frozen around him.

The bustle in the medical wing had not abated during the night; if anything, it had increased. But it all remained remote from him. The staff, when he had insisted on confronting them with his questions, had been unfailingly polite, but decidedly cool and uninformative. He had been somewhat confused by their veiled hostility, until he had realized that it was Mirilent Soljan who was now on duty as Chief Healer, the Mirilent Soljan, who was, under the best of circumstances, something of a curmudgeon; who had often attempted to nail him to the wall for his unorthodox methods of dealing with his padawan; who was no devotee of Jedi tradition and discipline; and who, above all things, loved his padawan - correction: his ex-padawan - as she loved few other things in this universe. He wondered how she would feel about him once she was persuaded to see the truth, persuaded to recognize the vile cretinous creature that had concealed itself beneath that façade of wide-eyed purity.

The Master had no doubt that Mirilent, herself, would refuse to speak to him, unless she decided to work him over with a surgical blade, but he was fairly certain that she would at least send someone out to inform him about Xani's condition, once the crisis was past. And the little girl, too, of course.

The little girl. Oomy.

Qui-Gon frowned. The child was an enigma, an enigma who hated him, and now, no doubt, once she learned what had happened with his ex-padawan, would hate him even more. But he couldn't quite understand why she should hate him so much. Yes, she loved _him_. (And wasn't that strange; somehow he couldn't bring himself to say - or even think - that name.) But why should that automatically cause her to despise the Master. He, after all, had done nothing to precipitate this crisis, had even reached a decision that would have allowed the apprentice to achieve knighthood, several years ahead of his expectations. Surely, that did not justify the child's resentment. She acted as if he, the Master, had behaved unfairly toward his ex-padawan, had treated him unjustly. Nothing could have been further from the truth. 

_He_ had done this, this unspeakable evil, in the name of that oldest of deadly sins, jealousy, because he could not find it within himself to allow someone else, no matter how deserving or capable, to share that which he already enjoyed.

Restless despite his best efforts to lose himself in meditation, the master rose and moved to stare out into the semi-darkness of the Coruscant nightscape, his eyes automatically tracing the pattern of traffic lines that wrapped the entire planet in a web of light, noting that the zone of separation maintained around the Temple served to provide a buffer against the scurrying pace of the planet at large.

Qui-Gon had never known what it was to be anything other than a part of the great Temple, and almost doubled over as a random thought struck him with the impact of a blaster bolt. From this day forward, _he_ would have no place here, in this rarefied atmosphere, would belong instead to that which lay there beyond the paristeel window, the frenetic bustle of the Force's lifeblood, without the buffer provided by the Jedi. How would he . . . where would he . . . . No. Such thoughts did not bear pursuing. It was no longer his concern. _He_ had discarded any future among the Jedi, and would learn the meaning of his folly in his own good time.

The Master turned away from the window, and the thoughts it inspired, and found himself staring down into a wizened worried face. Yoda regarded him silently, offering no opening remark - waiting.

"I suppose you've come to berate me for my stupidity," said Qui-Gon finally, seating himself on a low bench beneath the window.

Large, citrus eyes blinked slowly. "Feeling stupid, are you?"

"No." The response was just short of insolence.

"Ummm. Much anger, I sense, young Master. Release it, you must."

"In time," Qui-Gon replied, still abrupt, "but righteous anger sometimes serves a purpose."

"Indeed," agreed Yoda. "Serves to salve your conscience, it does."

"My conscience," answered the younger Master, "is just fine, thank you."

"The children?"

Qui-Gon sighed. "No word yet."

Yoda closed his eyes, and there was a sudden sense of a great presence, pausing around them. 

"Recovering, they are. All will be well."

"Except for Yoni," retorted Qui-Gon, and took a deep, shuddering breath as he recalled the image of that pale, lovely face as a medic had draped a sheet to cover it. It had been like seeing Tahl die again, tearing away the intervening years like ripping aside a tissue-thin curtain and ripping his heart, right along with it.

Yoda studied the face of his former padawan, and read the deep veins of pain that dwelled within him. "Convinced yourself, you have, that Obi-Wan did this, hmmmm?"

The towering Jedi sprang to his feet, unable to remain seated. "I didn't have to convince myself. I saw it. I heard what she said, with her dying breath."

"Called his name, she did," agreed the tiny Master, then looked up and forced Qui-Gon to meet his eyes. "With a smile."

"She didn't . . . "

But Yoda was not having any of that. "She did. Seen by all around her, it was. Smiled when she called his name, yes. What think you, does that mean?"

"Whatever it means, I saw what he did."

Yoda heaved a huge sigh. "Argue with you, I will not. Believe as you will. Ask only that you examine your heart, and what you know of Obi-Wan. A child of Light, he has always been. Ask yourself if it is even possible that he could have done what you accuse him of."

Qui-Gon reached up to massage his temples, where a headache was raging. "I know what I saw."

Yoda merely nodded. "Academic, it is anyway. What's done is not to be undone."

The troll turned to move away.

"Wait," said Qui-Gon. "When will the Council rule on my request to train Xani?"

Yoda paused, without turning back to him. "Much testing remains. Whether he is worthy of training, is still to be determined."

"Master Yoda, I need . . ."

And the tiny Master spun quickly, more quickly than most residents of the Temple would have believed possible. "Need what? Need to replace the bond you destroyed earlier tonight? Need to replace that which is very nearly irreplaceable? Need to fill your empty life?"

"You act as if I denied him because it was what I wanted, rather than what he did."

Yoda's eyes narrowed. "Say his name."

"What?"

"A simple instruction. Say his name."

Qui-Gon turned back to the window. "I see no purpose in this silliness."

"Correct in his judgment, he was, or so it seems. If you cannot even say his name, impossible it would have been to accept his blade. Returned it to Master Dyprio, he did."

Qui-Gon's face was a frozen mask, revealing nothing of whatever he might feel inside.

"Worry, you need not," observed Yoda, watching with narrowed eyes. "Gone, he is."

And that, at least, got through the defensive barrier the Master had constructed around himself. 

"Already?" he asked, very softly.

"Had no cause to delay, had he?"

Qui-Gon squared his shoulders and stared into the night. "And if we find that he should be made to answer for what he's done here?"

The tiny Master, for just a moment, debated whacking his oversized padawan with his gimmer stick, harder than he'd ever whacked him before. But, in the end, he didn't, for some things simply could not be beaten into a stubborn mind. "If that is your only concern with his departure," he said finally, "then this conversation is a waste of breath."

"You don't believe me," said Qui-Gon, barely audible. "You don't believe what I saw."

"What I believe, matters not," replied Yoda. "What you believe determines your reality, and Obi-Wan's. His destiny, you have already decided."

"Do we know where . . ."

"No. Told no one, he did. Trust in the Force, we must, to take care of him."

"I don't. . . ." The voice, so rich and full and sure, broke suddenly, and simply would not continue.

"Of course, you don't," replied the elderly Master, sadness draped around him like a cape. "But if I learn anything, I will see that it is forwarded to you. Whether you choose to look at it or not, is up to you."

The tiny Master departed quickly, and Qui-Gon was left staring out into the darkness. The darkness that now served to conceal _him_ , to mask where he had gone.

It didn't matter, he told himself. The sooner he let go of these bitter memories, the sooner he would move into the new phase of his life, the new golden era in which he would be able to train the padawan that he was meant to train. Soon enough, he would forget the ones who had failed him. This time, he would get it right.

 

***************** ********************** ****************

 

Climate control had finally relented, and put an end to winter on Coruscant, but a bitter chill still lingered into the small hours of the morning, and old, ramshackle buildings, like that which housed the Dulcinea Street Mission, were drafty and almost impossible to heat.

Jarielle Fer'mia adjusted the ragged, disreputable old sweater that she always wore when she was fighting to coax financial records into some semblance of order, and blew on hands that were, just slightly, numb with cold. The feet she had given up on hours ago.

It was long past time to go to bed, and she knew she was going to pay for her stubbornness in the morning when her first 'guests' arrived, far before the crack of dawn, caring not in the least that she had foregone her rest to juggle accounts that were almost beyond juggling.

The computer interphase connector that was affixed to the port implanted in her throat had begun to irritate her skin, a sure sign that she had been wired in for far too long. And the pseudo-images the device produced in her mind had begun to blur and bleed into strange, distorted shapes, another indication that she was stretching the envelope of user tolerance well beyond its intended limits. Still, she had made some progress, had found a few tiny items to aid in her infinite battle to continue her crusade to feed and house those without hope or recourse.

She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, and almost smiled when she recognized the gesture as one that a sighted person would use to indicate weariness. It was as she was reaching for her cup of kaffa - now quite cold - that she heard an anomalous sound, a sound that didn't belong among the broad band of sounds that ordinarily comprised the song of night within the mission.

A step, soft, barely audible, and undoubtedly beneath notice by any but a person who must hear with exceptional clarity, in order to see, without eyes.

Jarielle rose, careful to make no noise, and reached down into a receptacle affixed to the side of her work table, to retrieve a tiny, two-shot blaster, miniscule in the extreme, but no less deadly than its macro counterparts. Altruistic to a fault, she undoubtedly was, but she was also a product of Drimulan society, a society bred to violence and war, and she knew full well how to defend herself.

She moved through the archway that separated her work space from the mission proper, and stood listening. At this late hour, she was quite alone in the building; thus, all lights had been extinguished hours ago, so there was nothing to give away her presence in the darkness. 

She waited, and heard a soft rustle, closer now, wary, but somehow not really indicative of stealth.

"You planning to shoot me with that tinker toy, or just hoping I laugh myself to death?" said a tired voice, recognizable (it would take a lot more than exhaustion to make _that_ accent approach anonymity) but traced with uncharacteristic bitterness.

She huffed a sigh. "Obi-Wan, what do you mean by sneaking up on me like that? It may be tiny, but it's lethal enough to carve you into rib roast. I might have killed you."

He muttered something about not doing him any favors, as he flopped into a tattered old easy chair that sat against the wall. 

She opened her mouth to demand an explanation for his sudden appearance at such an ungodly hour, then stopped. Jarielle Fer'mia was not Force sensitive, not by any stretch of the imagination, but her all-too-human senses, in compensation for her lack of sight, were extraordinarily acute, and she knew suddenly that something was horribly, dreadfully wrong with her young friend. Moving with the ease of familiarity, she stepped to his side and laid a gentle hand against his forehead.

"By the gods," she breathed, reaching down and grabbing the first thing she found, an ear, as it happened, and pulling him up beside her, "you're freezing." Her hands dropped to his shoulders. "Where's your robe? Why are you dressed like that?" One hand moved, out of sheer habit, to grasp the Padawan braid, and froze in place.

"Obi?"

"What?" He sounded as if the effort to respond was almost beyond him.

"Where's your braid?" 

He allowed a tiny, hollow-sounding laugh. "Snip, snip."

"What are you saying?" she demanded, her hands bracing his arms.

"What am I saying?" He turned directly toward her for the first time, and she caught the aroma of brandy on his breath. "I'm saying. . ." He swayed slightly, then spoke again, with careful deliberation, "snip - snip. Seven years to grow it; seven seconds to throw it away."

"You're drunk," she observed, hardly believing it herself.

"Not," he replied, very succinctly, "drunk enough."

"I see," she said softly. "And when exactly do you think you'll be drunk enough?"

He inhaled sharply, but offered no response.

"When it doesn't hurt any more? Would that be it?"

He just shook his head, now not only unwilling but unable to reply.

She reached up and caressed his face, and felt the swelling and the jagged edges of the cut that still trailed blood down across his eye.

"What did he do?" she asked, pushing him down into the chair once more.

Her blindness certainly prevented her from seeing the look of total desolation that rose in his eyes, but she felt it any way.

"Tell me," she coaxed gently, kneeling beside him and wrapping her arms around his waist, noting as she did so that he was shivering violently. "What did he do?"

"It doesn't matter," he said finally. 

"It _does_ matter," she retorted. "Obviously, it matters to you. Now, tell me."

"He . . ."

"Obi-Wan, please go on. You need to say this. What did he do?"

"It isn't what he did," he said finally. "It's what he thinks I did."

"What do you mean?"

He drew a deep breath, and struggled for composure. After a while, he continued, although she wasn't entirely sure he was really answering her question. "He said he never knew me. I think . . . I think he was right. I think we never really knew each other at all."  


She took a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at the cut on his forehead. "Did he do this?"

He stood abruptly, pushing away from her. "I probably shouldn't have come here. I should go."

"And where exactly will you go?" she asked. "Tell me the truth, Obi-Wan. Can you go back to the Temple?"

"No." It was the barest whisper.

"Ever?"

"No."

She followed the sound of that desolate sigh, and wrapped her arms around him. He was wearing civilian clothing, something very soft and light and certainly not sufficient protection against the chill of the night. No wonder he was trembling, though she was almost certain it was due to more than just his reaction to the cold.

"Then you're exactly where you should be," she assured him. "In times of trouble, you must always go to those who love you. That's what brought you here, whether you knew it or not."

He shook his head. "I shouldn't . . ."

"Stop it. Don't you dare tell me you don't think you 'should' be here. Now come with me."

He walked with her when she moved toward the kitchen area, mostly because he had little choice; she had locked her arms around him and the only way he could have broken free was to push her away. Which, of course, she knew he would never do.

Moving with the absolute certainty of a blind person in familiar surroundings, she pushed him down onto a stool at the serving bar and proceeded to prepare two cups of kaffa, rich and aromatic and steaming hot.

With a wave of his hand, the young Jedi turned up the lights, just sufficiently to allow him to pick up his cup without dumping the scalding liquid in his lap, and also enough to let him decipher the expression on Jarielle's face.

He closed his eyes against what he read there; he had never learned to handle pity well.

Jari sat for a moment, savoring the warmth of the cup in her hands and the way the fragrance of the hot liquid teased the palate.

Then she reached across the table, and captured one of his hands. "Tell me," she reiterated. "All of it."

He stared down into his cup. "The details don't matter."

"All right," she replied, after a thoughtful pause. "The bottom line then."

He was silent for so long that she thought he wouldn't answer, but finally, he did, with the tone and inflection of a lost child. She was forced to brace herself against the abject misery she heard in his voice.

"I was going to be a Jedi knight," he began. "It's all I've ever wanted, all I know. And today - today, I lost that possibility. Today, I became nothing. I could have dealt with it all, I think, even with being expelled from the knighthood. But . . . but I don't know how to . . . "

"To what?"

She heard the breath catch in his throat and realized that what he was saying was almost impossible for him to express. "He believed that I tried to kill a child. He really believed that I was capable of that. How could he think . . ."

"Obi," she said gently, "people often say things they don't mean, in the heat of anger. Maybe you just misunderstood . . ."

"No," he said hoarsely, grasping his cup so tightly his knuckles were white. "I misunderstood nothing. When he . . ." - deep, shuddering breath - "when he reached into my mind to sever the bond, I saw it. I saw his thoughts. He really believed; he really . . . hated me."

As he had spoken, Jarielle had felt a great sadness well within her. "He severed your training bond? Are you sure?"

"Trust me," he said in that toneless, hopeless voice. "It's gone."

"And you haven't seen a healer?"

He pressed his fingertips against his temple, sighing softly. "I barely remember anything after . . . all I wanted was out. That's all I could think of - to get out."

She stood abruptly. "Come with me."

"What . . . just, let me sit for a while and I'll . . ."

"You'll fall flat on your face is what you'll do," she said firmly, "if you don't do as I say. I may not be Jedi, or know much about all the mystic claptrap you guys wrap your rituals in, but I know this. Severing a Master/Padawan bond results in major trauma to the mind, unless it's done with great care and delicacy. Somehow, I don't think that's the case here. Now, you are going to come upstairs and let me tuck you in bed, and I'm going to get someone in here who can fix the problem."

"No, Jari, I won't . . "

"Obi-Wan," she interrupted, "I'm a peaceful person. Some might even call me a pacifist. But, I swear, if you don't do as I tell you - right now - I'm going to smack you myself."

That actually brought a thin smile to his face, as he regarded her fondly. With the over-sized, thoroughly ratty sweater that enveloped her slender figure, she could easily have passed as a teen-ager, until one noted the determination in her beautiful gray eyes. "You know I could just sprint out of here, before you'd even know I was gone."

"And _you_ know that, if you do, I'm going to spend the whole night combing the neighborhood for you, and worrying. Is that what you do to your friends?"

He frowned. "That's blackmail, Jari."

She leaned forward, and stroked the spot where the Padawan braid should have been. "That's friendship, Love. Now come."

He opened his mouth to continue the argument.

"Now!"

And he found himself on his feet, wondering if, just maybe, his sightless friend might not have a facility for Force compulsion that none of them had ever recognized.

 

***************** **************** ****************

He woke among shadows, deep, motionless shadows, and there was a persistent repetitive buzzing sound somewhere beyond his range of vision. Or maybe it was in his head, as it seemed to keep time with the rhythmic throb beating against his temples.

He tried to turn his head, and found that he could not move at all, and tasted the first bitter seed of panic.

Then he tried to shout for help, and found that something was interfering even with that most basic of abilities as well, and the seed of panic erupted into full bloom.

He forced himself to restrain his explosive thoughts, and reach for the calm he knew he needed to access in order to regain control. When he had managed to achieve a small measure of equilibrium, he cast about to snag the memory of where he was and how he came to be here.

Oomy and Kenobi - sharing an intimacy that would forever exclude him; Kenobi's insolence and keen perception, laughing at Xani's dependence on the little girl; the walkway; Kenobi crashing into the railing under the impact of the attack; a black, formless hand tearing Xani away from his target and throwing him across the railing; falling; pain.

Yoni. He closed his eyes, and hardened himself against the wave of despair that demanded his attention. Yoni was gone; she had been a sacrifice to the purpose of their mission. A necessary sacrifice. He knew that. And knew, also, that she hadn't really been his sister; hadn't really been a natural person at all. Not like him. He knew he needed no one; knew he was perfect in and of himself.

He did not need her, or anyone.

He would not allow himself to miss her, or to mourn her passing. It served the purpose of their existence.

He tried again to move or to call out, with the same result.

Only one avenue remained for him, and he reached for it avidly, and found a presence; a familiar presence, yet, somehow different in some way. It should have been a comfort, but it was more remote than it should have been, and there was an icy edge within the customary warmth that he found disturbing.

 _You will listen, Little One_. There was none of the preliminary stroking and cajoling to which he had become accustomed over recent years. _All will be well, if you follow directions now. You must reinforce what Qui-Gon believes he saw. You must profess great fear of the padawan._

 _I'm not afraid of him._ Some things were, after all, just too embarrassing to contemplate; he would not pretend to cower before one who was not fit to shine his father's shoes, much less stand in his place at the side of the great Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn.

 _That may be so, Little Cretin._ Now there was no mistaking it; the voice that had been his companion and his comfort for so long, that had soothed and petted and prepared him for his role in this great adventure, was cold and forbidding and filled with malice. _But, if you are wise, you will fear me. And I am telling you that this is what you must do. Or would you prefer to face Oomy again, with no one to run interference for you?_

 _She'll tell._ Even in his own mind, he sounded smug, and almost cringed with dread. In truth, he didn't know the identity of his mysterious communicant, had never known, and had no way of gauging her strength. But he surmised enough to know that he probably was better off not knowing, and not testing her limits.

_Oomy remains unconscious, and will continue so for a while longer. Long enough, probably, if you do as you're told. Understood?_

Despite his uneasiness, the boy was still a virtual reincarnation of Xanatos, and thus, could no more contain his arrogance than he could breathe vacuum.

 _I still want the apprentice._ He knew he was being petulant, but he didn't care; his body was sore and painful, and he had a headache. And, more pertinent at this juncture, he was in the midst of the hormonal upheaval that afflicts almost all adolescent beings and, given his latent powers, felt impelled to act upon the carnal urges that most sentient beings were forced to learn to control.

Xani felt no compunction against acting out that which he desired.

He felt the mental probe that threaded through his thoughts, and understood abuptly that he had no real defenses against it. Yet still he maintained his stubborn insistence. _I want the apprentice._. 

Finally, he heard what might - just might - have been a sigh. _You are being foolish, Child. Regardless of your natural abilities, you are no match for a fully trained Jedi padawan. However, when I am finished with him, if there is anything left, then you may do with him as you please. But for now, you will do as you're told._

Xani, despite being fully restrained and punctured and penetrated and pumped, felt like beaming. He would have Kenobi. When all was said and done, he would, and then the real fun would begin.

Kenobi had laughed at him. Nobody laughed at him, and failed to pay for it.

He took a moment to compose his thoughts, and, more importantly, reinforce his shields, before reaching out through the Force, looking for, and finding, that one oh, so superior Force signature; it originated, as he'd been sure it would, from just beyond the entrance to his hospital room.

The door was opening before his mental cry had a chance to die away, and Qui-Gon Jinn was there, his presence even larger than his body, filling the room, filling the night, filling the boy's mind and heart. With a gentleness appropriate for handling fine crystal, the Master gathered the boy within his great arms and held him close, close enough to be soothed by the steady beat of the Master's heart.

The healers hastened in to remove restraints and tubes and wires, but they were all careful to avoid disturbing either the towering Jedi, or the child in his arms, and they withdrew quickly once all the paraphernalia had been properly stowed away. They were efficient and gentle and thoroughly professional, but Qui-Gon thought it strange that none of them spoke to either the patient or the Master.

"How do you feel, Little One?" asked the Master finally, when they were alone, his huge hand cradling the boy's face.

"Tired. Confused. And . . ."

Qui-Gon smiled. "And?"

"Scared." Xani's voice was no more than a faint breath.

"What are you afraid of, Child?"

Xani tucked his head, hiding his eyes, listening to a voice within his mind that offered steady guidance. "You'll be mad."

The Master studied the boy's profile, before laying a gentle hand on his back. "I won't be mad, Xani. I promise. There is nothing you cannot say to me."

"I'm afraid of Obi-Wan."

For the briefest of moments, the Master closed his eyes, but it was only the tiniest of lapses, gone almost before it registered. "Do you know why he did what he did, Xani?"

"I think it was for Oomy," replied the boy, allowing weariness to thread his voice. "She's never liked me much, but she sure likes him. It was like he was jealous or something. And Yoni . . ." His voice broke on a sob, "she just got in the way. She was trying to defend me. Why would he hate me so much, Master? Why? I mean, I know I said some things I shouldn't - about you being my Master. I know that was wrong, but it was just something I wanted so much. I'm sorry, Master; I never meant for something like this to happen. I'll tell Obi-Wan that I won't do it any more. Will that be OK? Will he stop hating me then?"

"Xani," Qui-Gon said, very softly, "He tried to hurt you. Aren't you angry with him? Don't you want to get even?"

The boy's eyes opened very wide. "I want to be a Jedi, Master, and the Jedi never seek revenge. I just want him not to hate me so much."

Qui-Gon stared into the boy's eyes, and, for a moment Xani wondered if he had gone too far, had come across as a bit too pure to be true. Then he saw the warmth rising in midnight blue eyes, and knew, beyond all doubt, that there was very little he could do that would be construed as going too far. 

In the eyes of the Master, little Xani - reincarnation of beautiful Xanatos - could do no wrong.

The door opened with a crash that was almost an explosion. Qui-Gon didn't even bother to look up to see who had entered so precipitously; he already knew.

"My, my, my, what a sweet little vignette of domesticity!" said Healer Mirilent Soljan, voice dripping honeyed venom. "If you two aren't just the perfect couple!"

Xani's eyes opened wide, then narrowed. Here was someone on which any charm he might dispense would be a total waste. "Master?" he said softly, the tiny nuance of fright he allowed to creep into his tone not entirely bogus.

"It's all right, Xani," said Master Jinn. "I'm sure Healer Soljan has nothing but good news for us."

Mirilent regarded the Jedi with a look that would have seared raw meat, and even the great Qui-Gon Jinn was not totally impervious to her wrath. 

"He'll have to stay here overnight," she said finally. "No major damage, beyond a fractured collarbone, and we both know how easy such an injury is to overlook, don't we, Master Jinn? I seem to recall someone - his name eludes me for the moment - who has developed the skill of functioning normally despite such an injury, to an art form. Of course, I doubt your new apprentice will be quite so eager to sacrifice his comfort, but who knows? Maybe just being apprenticed to you makes them lose their minds and turn into instant masochists. I certainly can't imagine any other reason they'd be so enamored of you. Can you?"

"Mira . . "

She almost snarled at him. "My name, Master Jinn, is Master Healer Soljan. Only my friends are allowed to call me Mira. Understood?"

"You don't know the whole story," he said firmly.

"Wrong," she snapped. "I was there, Toots. Just like you. Only I had an advantage."

"Such as?"

"I didn't come in with an ax to grind, and a padawan to destroy."

"You don't know . . ."

"Oh, no," she said quickly. "You better not even think of going there. Don't you dare tell me that I don't know Obi as well as I think I do. Don't you dare. I know him perfectly well, every bit as well as I know you. I know what you did tonight, and so does 95% of the Temple. And I hope you remember it, every single time you walk down the grand corridor, and see heads turn to look at you. I hope you remember that they're all saying the same thing. 'There goes Qui-Gon Jinn, the _great_ Jedi Master, who once had the Perfect Padawan, and knifed him in the back.'"

"You will be silent," the Master almost hissed, fighting to hold his temper.

"Or what?" she replied, moving to stand directly in front of him, hands planted on her hips. "Are you going to use your fists on me, too, Tough Guy? I'm almost as big as Obi, so that should be just about your speed. Oh, but wait; I, after all, am also a Jedi Master, so slugging me would undoubtedly have huge repercussions. Can't have that, now can we?"

"I was . . ."

"Unforgivable," she said quickly, softly. "That's what you were. That's what you are. And, you know, somewhere deep inside me, down beneath the rage that I am doing my best to control so I don't just hunt down a blaster and put you out of your misery, down under all that, I think I feel sorry for you, Master Qui-Gon. Because I think there's a day coming, a day when your eyes are finally, irrevocably going to be opened, and may the gods forgive you then, because I honestly don't think you'll ever be able to forgive yourself. And that, Master Jinn, will make two of us."

When she spun and walked away, the Master stood for a moment in total silence, oblivious of everything, even the boy lying in the bed beside him, as a crystalline memory surfaced in his mind - an image of his padawan, working through a training kata, left arm completely encased in a hard cast, dripping with sweat, and grinning madly as he finished with a perfectly executed back flip, landing in a forward lunge. If memory served, the successful completion of that little exercise had cost the Master a caroba ice-cream parfait, with malla berries. _His_ favorite.

Qui-Gon huffed a sigh. This was ridiculous. He could say the name. Of course, he could. He just didn't see the need. Not right now.

"Xani, if you're feeling all right," he said softly, "I have some matters to attend. Some concerning your future, as a matter of fact. Will you be okay, here?"

Xani's eyes jerked toward the doorway. "Is she coming back?"

Qui-Gon chuckled. "I doubt it, but, even if she did, it's me she's angry at. Not you. Don't worry."

"Another Obi-lover, I guess," said the boy, and Qui-Gon, for just the barest trace of a second, heard something in the remark that he found . . . disconcerting.

But then, he decided, it was just his imagination.

"Get some rest," he said quietly, laying a gentle hand on the boy's forehead. "And, in the morning, there might be some pleasant new developments."

"Yes, Master. Thank you, Master." 

As Qui-Gon left the room, he firmly assured himself that it wasn't really a growing smugness that he heard in the boy's voice every time he repeated the word, Master. It was just completely understandable happiness.

 

**************** *************** ******************

 

He would go to speak to Master Yoda; he would go tonight. Too much time had already been wasted in Xani's training. Although the boy had been given basic Jedi classes throughout his childhood, there were many disciplines taught only in a Master/Padawan relationship. It was time.

Still, it had been a long day, and a shower would not be amiss; he looked forward to the pleasant beat of steaming water to ease the soreness of tense muscles.

Qui-Gon palmed the lock that secured his quarters, and had his first of a series of minor shocks.

Jinn/Kenobi. That was the sign on the door. The same sign that had marked this as reserved territory for more than seven years.

Jinn/Kenobi.

He would change it tomorrow.

He walked into the common room, and stumbled.

He had assumed that _he_ would remove all his belongings, all the mementos that marked the various achievements of their joined lives: the trophies, the awards, the medals, the holopics. He had been wrong.

They all stood exactly as they always had. He had taken nothing.

Qui-Gon stood for a moment, trying to think, trying to clear his head, trying not to allow these inanimate objects to trigger memory.

With an exclamation that was almost a growl, he grabbed a canvas bag from the closet, and swept everything into it, indiscriminately.

If _he_ didn't care enough to preserve these things, and keep them, then the Master would simply discard them. Tomorrow. 

Finally, knowing that in order to progress beyond this day, beyond this moment, he had to finish what he had begun, Qui-Gon walked to the bedroom that had belonged to his ex-Padawan and pushed open the door.

He had taken a few things from this room, personal items. A few datapads, a few holopics. Personal clothing.

But nothing else.

Qui-Gon walked to the side of the bed and looked down on the assortment of items laid out there, with characteristic neatness.

Two sets of Jedi clothing; tunics, leggings, sashes, belts, robes, boots. Mission statements; information binders; planetary guides. An assortment of small weapons, including a lovely, hand-carved ornamental dagger, a gift, if the Master's memory served, from the regent of Alderaan, on the occasion of her engagement. All laid out in neat rows.

And, finally, off to the side. By themselves. Two more items.

Humble items, neither having any intrinsic value.

A tiny, smooth stone, veined with color, strangely warm to the touch. His birthday stone, the first gift he had ever received from his Master.

And, last of all, his braid. Neatly coiled. Beaded with bright blue, to match his Master's eyes, he'd always joked. Almost two feet long.

Dead now. Lifeless. Already unraveling into randomness.

Qui-Gon Jinn stared down at the pitifully sparse collection of items that were all that was left of the years of his padawan's childhood. Gingerly, he picked up the braid, and allowed himself to caress its silken softness.

And suddenly went to his knees, his chest wracked with deep, raw sobs that threatened to rip him asunder.

Why? It was a question that would haunt him until the end of time, until he relinquished his hold on life and gratefully joined the Force. Why?

 

****************** ********************* **************

 

Mirilent Soljan moved with all the finesse and timidity of a guided missile as she strode vigorously toward the main entrance of the Temple. At this very late hour, or very early, depending on your point of view, there was no one about to witness her departure.

Or so she assumed as she shifted her medical case from hand to hand and clutched her thick robe tighter about her, preparatory to going out into the night.

"Wait, you will." It was softly spoken, barely audible, but accompanied by a faint but unmistakable trace of Force energy.

The healer paused, obviously impatient, obviously unintimidated by the identity of the interloper, but curious about his motives.

Yoda moved out of a shadowed recess, a small parcel in his hand. "Deliver this, you will."

She regarded that ancient visage, allowing herself a lopsided smile. "How did you know?"

"Much loved, he is. Within the Jedi, and without. Knew someone would send for a healer and knew you would be the one to go."

She gestured toward the parcel. "What is that?"

"For his eyes only. You need not concern yourself."

She didn't bother trying to conceal her anger. "The Order hasn't exactly done itself proud today, Master. Why should I blindly trust that you have only his welfare at heart?"

The tiny Master sighed. "Love him much, you do, Master Mirilent. Know this, I do, enough to forgive your insinuations. But presume not. The only one to love young Kenobi, you are not. Trust in the Force, we must, to see to his protection."

A small smile that was - almost - mischievous sparked in that wizened face. "But a bit of insurance would not be unwise, hmmmm?"

A speculative gleam swelled in her eyes, as she accepted the parcel. "And the Master?" she said softly. "How will you protect him, when the time comes? Obi will survive; he's stronger and better than the lot of us; strong enough to take whatever fate dishes out, no matter how unfair or how it breaks his heart. But Jinn? According to my reckoning, this is probably the straw that breaks the bantha's back."

"Ummmm, some protection, the Jedi can not provide. One cannot be protected from the folly of following the dictates of the heart."

She sighed, and gripped her cloak around her. "I must go quickly. He's almost certainly in shock, and has apparently consumed a fair amount of alcohol. Not a good combination."

"May the Force be with you, Master Healer, and watch over him."

She squared her shoulders. "Considering that I'm about to walk into the belly of the beast, a hive of scum and villainy of the first order, I will accept your blessing, and carry it safely tucked away - right between my lightsaber and the macro-blaster Master Dyprio was kind enough to lend me."

Yoda merely nodded, and watched her walk out into the darkness.

He found it incredibly difficult to keep himself from racing after her, from following her into the depths of Coruscant, from seeing for himself the condition of the young man who had been the most beautiful of all the children to grow up in the Temple, and the most promising.

The child of destiny; the child of prophecy; the child now discarded and tossed away like yesterday's rubbish.

The diminutive Master sighed softly, and went to find his bed, to try to wrest a few hours of broken sleep from the grips of this dreadful night.

 

******************* **************** ******************

 

Judging from the appearance of the mission itself, as well as the eclectic (a polite word for bedraggled) nature of the furnishings, Mirilent expected to find her young patient balled up on a metal cot under a paper-thin blanket. She was, therefore, pleasantly surprised to find him ensconced in a large, softly-padded sleep couch, bundled in a plush comforter, between silky, lace-edged sheets.

None of the creature comforts around him, however, seemed to have had much effect, as he was still shivering violently and appeared only semi-conscious.

"Nice place," said the Healer, noting the decidedly feminine ambiance of the chamber.

"Yes," replied Jarielle Fer'mia, apparently unabashed. "It's mine, of course, and it's also the only fully furnished room in the building, not to mention the warmest. I figured I could either save his life or my reputation, but probably not both."

Mirilent smiled broadly, deciding immediately that she could really get to like this spunky young woman.

"Has he been like this since he arrived?" she asked.

"He was cold and miserable when he got here," Jari answered, "but not like this. He was able to tell me what happened. But, when I tried to get him up here and put him to bed, he just seemed to come apart."

Mirilent nodded, and knelt beside the bed, taking Obi-Wan's cold hand in both of hers. "Obi," she said gently, "I need you to wake up and talk to me."

He shifted slightly, and mumbled something unintelligible.

"Come on, Little One. You can do it. Wake up."

"Dreaming," he breathed.

Her smile was gentle. "What are you dreaming, Baby?"

He twisted and burrowed deeper into the softness of the bed. "Home," he answered, voice muffled.

Mirilent looked up and noted the gloss of tears in Jarielle's eyes, mirroring those in her own, no doubt.

The Healer reached out and grasped her patient's arms, pulling him from the warm nest he had constructed for himself. "Obi, Love, you have to wake up. I need you awake so you can help me to help you."

"Mira?" he mumbled, obviously still in the grip of dreams.

"Yes, Love. Come on. Open your eyes."

He frowned mightily.

"Come on. That's it. Open now."

Red-gold lashes fluttered, revealing bare slits of bright blue green. For a moment, there was no focus in those incredible eyes; then the gaze shifted, and sharpened, looking straight up.

"It's pink," he observed succinctly. "Why is it pink?"

Mira chuckled. "Can't get anything past you, can we? Indeed it is, Love."

"Mira?"

"Yes, Darling?"

"Why is the ceiling pink?"

"Because," said another voice, soft, lyrical, amused. "I like pink. Or I did, when I could see it."

"Jari?" Obi-Wan was still not trying to move very much. From the wary look in his eyes, Mira thought it just might be because he was afraid, if he did, that his head might fall off.

"In the flesh, Obi."

"Do you know where you are, Obi-Wan?" At this point, Mirilent launched into healer mode, adopting her clinical, no-nonsense persona.

"The mission?" Obviously, a guess.

"And you remember how you got here?"

"Sure, I . . ."

"Go on. You what?"

He sat up abruptly, suddenly hyper-aware of where he was and what he was doing, and obviously embarrassed at the perception of his own vulnerability.

"I need to get out of here," he said, throwing off the thick covers and, at the same time, suppressing a heavy tremor.

Mirilent was unperturbed, gently but firmly pushing him back down in the bed. "You need," she insisted, "to listen to me, and do exactly as I tell you. Now, answer me. Do you remember how you got here?"

For a moment, she thought he might just refuse to answer, but he finally shook his head. "No. I don't."

Her gaze was warm and steady and contained no trace of condemnation. "And I suppose you don't remember what you were drinking either?"

He shot her a tiny, self-conscious little smile (which she found completely endearing). "Alloriam brandy, I think. Courtesy of Garen."

"Yes, well, I'm absolutely sure that your childhood chum meant you no harm, but alcohol - added to the psychic trauma you suffered earlier - all in all, not a good idea, Little One."

She opened her medical bag, and removed an infuser. "What kind of noxious potion are you shooting me with now?" he demanded, no more amenable to Healers' intervention than he had ever been before, which was to say - not at all.

She leaned forward and fixed him with a smile that might have frozen fainter hearts, and actually caused his to flutter just a bit. "Listen, you little brat, you are going to take this 'noxious potion', and then you are going to let me put you into a healing trance, just for a few hours, and then you are going to stay right here - in this bed - nice and cozy and warm, until the trance wears off. And if you don't agree to all this, I'm going to shoot you full of sedatives, and keep you here anyway. So, what's it going to be; co-operation or a chemical cocktail?"

He studied her face. "You need to get out more, Mira. The Temple is turning you into a tiny terror."

"You're evading the question." She replied, smiling in spite of herself, "and you are not going to charm your way out of this. Turn over."

With a disgusted sigh, he rolled over, unfastened his waistband, and presented his slender backside. "Hey," he said suddenly, "how come I never get infusions in the arm, like everyone else?"

She slapped his tight little bottom just as the infuser caressed bare skin. "Because I'm completely enamored of your adorable little ass," she answered, never missing a beat. "Turn back over."

He rolled, and settled back against a nest of pillows, and she took a moment to study his appearance, noticing for the first time that his attire was something of a radical departure from traditional Jedi restraint: silky shirt of a deep green, over black, shapely trousers. A soft sueded black jacket was draped over an adjacent chair, and a pair of polished black boots sat at the foot of the bed.

It would have been a tremendously enticing ensemble, if the beautiful face it framed had not been porcelain-pale.

"Very fetching, Love," she assured him, "but there'll be no prowling tonight, if that's what you had in mind."

"Mira," he said steadily, if very softly, "I do not prowl."

She laughed and caressed his cheek. "Only every time you strut down a corridor. There are pros on streetcorners all over Coruscant who would pay big money to learn to walk like that."

"You're not making me feel any better," he informed her.

She took his hands in hers and peered into his eyes. "I know, Love. That's one thing I don't know how to do. Not yet. You have to deal with this, Obi, and the only way to get through it is to just endure it. I'm sorry; I wish there was another way. You can't run away from it; it's just going to follow you."

He nodded, and shivered violently.

"I'll find more blankets," said Jarielle, desperate to do something to ease his misery.

"Lie back," said Mira, soothingly, noting that Jari had done a good job of cleaning and dressing the cut on his forehead. She would just direct a bit of Force healing into it, as she pushed him down into the healing trance, and it would be gone by tomorrow. Unfortunately, the true pain within him would take a lot longer than that to heal.

"You know how to do this, Obi," she said gently, almost crooning. "It's not like you haven't done it dozens of times before. Fall into it, Love. Feel the Force reaching for you, wrapping its arms around you, cradling you. Feel its warmth and its comfort."

"Yes-s," he answered, eyelids drooping now.

She touched her forehead against his, and the power of the Force was a physical presence as it flowed into him. "Sleep, Love, and be well," she whispered. "And with each passing day, your pain will lessen, until you are whole and strong again. The Force will guide you and bless you, Child, for all time."

He sank into the pillows, the frown fading from his face. But he was still shivering, as Jarielle returned to the room. "I'm afraid there are no more blankets," she said softly. "The wards are all full tonight, because of the cold and I don't have any extras."

"Then it'll have to do," replied the Healer. "The healing trance should warm him, after a while. I'll check back in the morning."

She gathered her belongings and rose, but paused as she saw something in the other woman's eyes that made her uneasy.

"What is it?" she asked. "What do you know, that I don't?"

Jarielle was the very picture of composure, except for a small vein that insisted on throbbing sporadically in her throat.

"He may not be here in the morning."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning," said the Drimulan, with an unexpected spark of spirit, "that the Jedi no longer have the right to dictate where he goes, or what he does. He may choose to be elsewhere."

"What have you done?" asked Mirilent, sensing that some irrevocable step had just been taken, either by Obi-Wan, or for him, but having no idea what it might have been.

"If he wishes you to know," answered Jari, "he will tell you. It's not my choice to make."

"And who," asked the Healer, "chose to take whatever action it is that you've initiated?"

"If any choice is to be made," snapped Jari, "it will be his to make. Unlike the mighty Jedi, we do not abuse those who devote their lives to our cause."

"And that cause would be exactly what?"

Jarielle moved to the doorway, plainly ready to show the Healer out. "When - and if - you see him again, you can ask."

Mirilent looked as if she wanted to argue further, but, in the end, she chose not to. Instead, she laid a small parcel on the bedside table. "When he wakes," she said gently, "please see that he gets this."

Jarielle simply nodded. She had said all she intended to say.

When the Jedi healer had gone, with great reluctance, Jarielle returned to the bedroom and stood for a moment, listening to the flutter of Obi-Wan's breath.

Then she sighed and allowed herself a small smile, as she pictured how some of her steadiest patrons would react to being in the situation in which she found herself now; patrons like good-natured (but randy) Virek, the Tomarsian who made such a show of lusting after this fine, young Jedi body.

But there was nothing for it: he was freezing, she was cold, and this was the only bed in the house.

With exquisite care, she eased herself down beside the 'fine, young Jedi body', and took him in her arms, immediately concerned by the chill of his flesh.

However, it was soon obvious that she need not have been concerned. Deep in the healing trance he undoubtedly was, and would remain for the rest of the night, but the natural instincts of a healthy young, human male were at least as strong as the compulsion of the healing trance; asleep he remained, but he was soon fully entwined with her slender body, and both were shortly quite pleasantly warm.

Jari was grateful for the warmth, and determined to ignore the other 'benefits' of the sleeping arrangement. Still, it had been a very long time since she slept in the arms of a lovely young man, and she finally decided to just relax and enjoy it.

 

***************** ****************** ***************

When he wakened, it was sudden, one moment deep in the grip of the healing trance; the next, wide-eyed and confused.

He looked around, and knew that, wherever he was, it was a place he had never been before. It was not unpleasant; it was just strange. Alien. Female.

Obi-Wan almost groaned. _Oh, gods, what did I do, and who did I do it with?_

He then realized, with a ridiculous degree of relief, that he was, at least, still clothed, if not particularly neatly.

The sound of someone at the door of the room caused him to sit bolt upright, and then to regret it as a stab of agony tore through his temples.

A soft chuckle from the person standing just within the open doorway was not really loud or raucous; it just seemed that way to a brain being shredded by a monster hangover.

Obi-Wan's eyes were closed tight as he felt a weight settle on the side of the sleep couch. It occurred to him that he might be sitting here facing payback from a jealous husband or something; right now, he couldn't be bothered to open his eyes and check it out. "If you plan to kill me," he said, barely audible, "now would be a really good time."

The chuckle came again. "Here. Drink this. I guarantee it will make you feel better."

Blindly, he groped and felt a hand press a cup against his flailing fingers. Kaffa - hot and strong and sweet.

"Whatever I did," he managed, after a few cautious sips, "I apologize. And to your wife, too. Or your mother. Or your daughter. Or whoever."

"Well," said the well-modulated voice, still very amused, "I suppose I could take umbrage on behalf of my sister. I did, after all, find the two of you tucked in together like nestlings."

And now he did groan. He had obviously behaved quite badly, and didn't even have the consolation of remembering if he'd had fun, in the process.

Footsteps approached, and a second voice, a lovely, lyrical voice, replaced the sardonic baritone. "Obi-Wan, open your eyes."

"Can't I just put my head under a pillow, and smother myself?"

Her laugh was musical. "Wake up, Sleepyhead. Arain is just teasing you. You have behaved like a perfect gentleman. All night."

One bleary eye opened briefly. "Jari?"

"Yes, Obi."

"What am I . . . did we . . . where did you , . ."

"Do you have a question, Obi Wan?" asked Arain Fer'mia, obviously enjoying the boy's discomfiture.

"Jari, did I . . ."

"You slept in my bed, Obi, with me. To keep us both from freezing. That's it. OK?"

He sighed his relief, and decided that he would not notice or acknowledge the somewhat compromising condition of his wayward body. Nor would he climb out of this bed, until he could do so in privacy.

"Do you remember the Healer?" asked Jarielle, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Not really."

"She put you in a healing trance, to get you past the psycho-trauma."

"Who. . ."

"Her name was Miri, I think."

He nodded and allowed himself a small smile. Apparently, she had not been joking when she claimed that she would come when and if he needed her. It was a very comforting thought.

"She left something for you."

He took the small parcel from her and examined it until he found the small catch that opened it.

Within the box lay his lightsaber, and a small scrap of plasfilm.

He looked at the words scrawled on the scrap and recognized the hand immediately. Master Yoda's looping script was unmistakable. The note was simple and brief.

"A Jedi is a product of the heart, not of the Temple. A Jedi you will always be."

For several moments, there was only silence. Both Jarielle and Arain seemed to realize that this was a solemn moment for the young man and allowed him time to come to terms with his feelings. Which he wasn't sure he ever would, as he felt tears rise in his eyes. Whether they were tears of gratitude - or joy - or sheer wonder, he could not have said.

Master Yoda, the quintessential Jedi, he who defined the word, had ignored dogma, ignored protocol, ignored the edicts of the Council, to allow an exiled padawan to retain his symbol of the Order - the weapon of a Jedi.

Without a word, the young man twisted his body so he could attach the weapon to his belt.

"So what now?" asked Arain Fer'mia. "Have you thought beyond today?"

Obi-Wan smiled. "That's why you're here, isn't it? You knew I'd need a cause to join."

"I did, but the choice is completely yours."

"You do realize that I no longer have any influence among the Jedi? I did present your evidence, but I have no idea if they'll act on it. So if that's your reason for being here . . ."

Fer'mia stepped close and looked into Kenobi's sea change eyes. "I see before me the strong arm and able blade of a Jedi knight. No matter what the Order says. And I would be honored to have your assistance in our struggle."

He moved to the doorway. "But my time is short, and we risk much being seen here. You must decide now. I'm sorry I can't grant you more time for deliberation. I'll wait downstairs. Ten minutes; no more. If you elect to remain here, I'll understand."

And with that, and a brilliant smile, he was gone.

Jarielle remained, but she made no move to influence his decision. Until he asked.

"Is he a good man, Jari?"

"Yes, Obi. The war has made him hard, but he has great personal honor."

Obi-Wan smiled. "Then what am I waiting for?"

She laughed. "You might want to put on your boots. And this." And she handed him a thick wool cape, of deepest midnight blue.

"It was my father's," she said softly. "I believe he would be honored if you would accept it as you go off to help fight our battles."

He grabbed her hand and kissed it gently, then climbed quickly out of the bed, still with sufficient cause to be glad that she could not see him.

Quickly, he adjusted his clothing, slipped into one boot, and headed out the door at her side, still fighting to don the second.

When they erupted from the stairwell, just within Arain's deadline, Obi-Wan was still trying to tuck in his shirt and push his foot into the recalcitrant boot.

The two of them made quite a striking picture, as she laughed and tried to help him balance.

In the great dining hall, where the noise level had been, as always, near thunderous, there was an abrupt, eerie silence. And then, suddenly, there were catcalls and cheers and a burst of applause.

"All right, Jari," cried the ladies at the infamous 'lightbulb' table, and there were smiles and grins and whistles everywhere.

Obi-Wan blushed scarlet to the roots of his hair, but Jarielle was unperturbed. She leaned over and whispered in his ear. "Just let it go, Love. We're making their day."

And she kissed him - fleetingly, but extremely well - making him wish he had not slept quite so soundly the night before.

The cheering rose to a deafening level, as Obi-Wan finally managed to get his boot on, Jarielle managed to look smug, and Arain watched indulgently.

Finally, the infamous smuggler moved to stand before the exiled Jedi, and grinned. "It's an awful old cliché," he said, "but it has never been quite so true. Today is most certainly the first day of the rest of your life. Are you ready to meet it?"

Obi-Wan found that his smile came more easily than he would have thought possible just the day before. Everything that he had known; everything that he had been; everything that he had loved was gone. He could either drown himself in bitterness, or he could set out to replace it all.

He looked at Arain and thought he saw something within the man that he would be able to pledge his honor to.

Finally, he smiled. "Let's go save your world."

Arain nodded and tried to ignore the tiny lump in his throat. Something important had just happened. He knew it, but he didn't have time to think about it now.

Together, they went out into the gray twilight of morning. Sunrise was approaching. A new day was at hand.

***************** ****************** ************** 

tbc


	14. The End of the Solitude

Chapter 14: The End of the Solitude

 

_In the desert a fountain is springing,_  
_In the wide waste there still is a tree,_  
_And a bird in the solitude singing,_  
_Which speaks to my spirit of thee._

_"Stanzas to Augusta"_ \-----George Gordon, Lord Byron

 

She was sleek and black and painfully beautiful, and undoubtedly as deadly as a Tatooine black scorpielle, which she faintly resembled. The name, barely visible in dark crimson against the ebony hull, was _Double Helix_. And the same name was undoubtedly listed on some fading registry documents, moldering away in some forgotten file drawer on Yaga Minor, a backwater planet, lurking unheralded in the Outer Rim. Faint markings beneath the faded name, proclaimed the ship's planetary registry, established at her launch, but now long forgotten. The name could also be resurrected - if necessary - from title documents held, somewhere, by the ship's master.

Such an event, however, was unlikely in the extreme, as the starways regularly traversed by this beauty were far off the beaten paths where such circumstances were likely to occur.

The name was virtually unknown, but the ship most certainly was not. A great amount of ingenuity and innovation had gone into rendering her unrecognizable, for the moment, and the disguise would function well enough, unless and until someone decided to take a closer look. Weapons mounts and ion cannons, laser batteries and torpedo launchers could be camouflaged only so far, after all.

A genuine effort at camouflage would have meant actually obscuring the sleek beauty of her hull, but her Master was not yet convinced of the necessity for such extreme measures and would avoid them until the bitter end if he could.

Officially, she remained _Double Helix_ \- sometimes, not quite affectionately, corrupted to become _Double Hell_ ; unofficially - and rather spectacularly - she was the _Lady Ghost_ , the flagship of the Ghost Fleet, which was a rather grandiose term for an altogether rag-tag collection of mostly nondescript vessels, a surprisingly small collection given the degree of havoc credited to the group's efforts, totaling only seven ships of varying sizes and configurations.

But nondescript was not a term that would ever be applied to the flagship, and Obi-Wan felt his breath catch in his throat as he caught his first glimpse of her.

Arain Fer'mia said nothing, but the glow of pride in his eyes was unmistakable, as he allowed one eyebrow to lift, inviting comment.

Obi-Wan grinned. "She's breathtaking," he observed.

And it seemed a terrible understatement. The streamlined corvette, while probably designed for maximum efficiency, was also a model of grace and style, lines clean and sweeping and almost singing of power and speed and exuberance.

Fer'mia noted the blatant hunger in the boy's gaze and in the way he caught his lip between his teeth as he stared, and smiled. The smuggler knew lust when he saw it, and, in this case, he approved heartily.

"Think you can fly her?"

Until that moment, nothing that had occurred since leaving the mission had really surprised the new recruit, from the somewhat mad dash to the spaceport, to the unorthodox manner of their departure in a shuttle that looked like it had definitely seen better days (a century or two ago), to Fer'mia's casual variation from the pre-filed flight plan, to the sudden lightspeed jump (in a vessel that looked as if it shouldn't have been able to reach even half that velocity) that brought them to the back side of Coruscant's tiny, barren third moon, where the dark vision before him now had lain in wait, concealed by the moon's shadow. But his eyes widened abruptly as he realized what the smuggler captain had said.

"You intend to let me fly her?"

Arain almost laughed aloud at the flare of pure exhilaration that lit the boy's face. "I need a co-pilot, and an engineer. Both areas that you excel in, or so I've been told."

Now Obi-Wan was truly beaming. "Let me get this straight," he said. "You want me to fly her and to work on her engines. Right?"

"Our manpower is limited, Obi-Wan, meaning we all do double duty, And that's a fair assessment of what I need from you. What do you think?"

Obi-Wan leaned back against the harness that held him in place in the co-pilot's seat. "I think I've died and gone to heaven," he answered.

"As to that," said Arain, something dark moving in his eyes, but he was interrupted by an electronic voice before he could continue.

"Approach approved," said the onboard computer's nasal vodor. 

Obi-Wan leaned forward to disengage station-keeping, but Arain stopped him with a look and a smile. "Your first lesson. We'll call it 'Smuggling 101', shall we? The first approval is always - _always_ \- a decoy. Different groups use different variations of the routine, but all use some kind of failsafe. In our case, we wait. In a few minutes - and the time varies randomly - we'll get a second signal. Tonal qualities only, direct to the computer. Then we can actually approach. I'm sure it must seem like blatant paranoia to you, but precautions like this have kept us alive and free to operate for a lot longer than anyone would believe possible. And we intend to keep it that way."

Obi-Wan turned to face the smuggler, and surprised a strange, speculative gleam in Fer'mia's eyes. Young Kenobi didn't bother trying to stifle his smile. Obviously, Fer'mia knew who and what he was, and would certainly understand that it was child's play for anyone trained in the Jedi arts to pick up the stray thoughts the pirate was broadcasting so clearly, even though his shielding - for a non-Force user - was fairly impressive. "So when had you planned to tell me that I might not be welcomed with open arms by your crew?"

Fer'mia barked a short laugh. "Were you always welcomed with open arms as a Jedi?"

"No. Often just the opposite."

"Yet you're still here, whole, sound, and in one piece - more or less. So I have to conclude that you don't need to be warned about what might lie in store. Right?"

Obi-Wan smiled. "I see your point. Still, it might be prudent to tell me what you expect from me and, maybe more to the point, what you don't expect."

Fer'mia nodded. "Fair enough. First of all, your being here doesn't change who you are. Wherever you are, you're still Jedi, young Kenobi. And I don't expect you to stop being what you are. However, you need to understand the situation among my crew, in order to know how to proceed. Basically, they're good men, skilled, highly trained, and willing to die for what they believe. But polished? Cultured? Hardly. With a few notable exceptions, they're rough, crude, and suspicious to the point of paranoia. Once you've earned their trust, they'll march into the deepest ring of hell at your side without turning a hair, but the key is that you have to earn it. They won't just hand it over because I bring you on board."

Obi-Wan nodded. "Despite appearances, Captain, I'm not a child, and I'm not unaccustomed to dealing with some fairly rough elements."

"Good, because you're about to deal with some now. And believe me when I tell you that any patronage or favoritism I might show for you would only make things worse. In this outfit, every man must stand on his own. Now, I understand that it would be the height of foolishness to expect you not to use the abilities you're blessed with, but I do ask one thing. If possible, no Jedi mind tricks. Brawn and bravura they've all got - abundantly - but brains? In some of them, those are in short supply, and I don't want to take any chances of scrambling whatever gray matter they might possess. And, if I may, I'd just suggest that you keep your saber out of sight, until they adapt to the idea of a Jedi in their midst. OK?"

The former Padawan smiled. "You do realize," he said softly, "that a mind trick, in some cases, is more - how shall I put it? - humane than the alternative?"

Arain let his eyes slide down the young man's slender body and couldn't suppress a grin. "Padawan," he laughed, and, strangely enough, the term elicited no pained response from the boy "if you can put a genuine hurt on some of these behemoths, I look forward to buying you a bottle of the finest brandy in the quadrant, providing you survive the experience."

Obi-Wan was thoughtful for a moment. "Are you suggesting that I should 'arrange' to lose, Captain?"

A vein of alarm flared in gray/green eyes. "Absolutely not. In fact, if it should come to that, regardless of the damage it would do to your acceptance by the crew, I believe I'd be compelled to step in. You're too important to us - to our purpose - for me to allow you to come to an untimely end. And you must understand this, Obi-Wan; some of these men are predators. It wasn't a choice; it was what they had to be in order to survive. They're not without their own unique brand of honor, but neither are they what anyone would consider 'nice men'. Understood?"

Obi-Wan studied the face of the man who would now have the right to expect his allegiance. "And you, Captain? Are you a 'nice man'?"

Fer'mia laughed, but not before Obi-Wan caught a fleeting glimpse of something almost hungry in the depths of his eyes. "Me? I'm the biggest predator of all, my young friend. Keep that in mind, always."

"Then explain yourself," said the ex-Jedi. "What do you mean when you say that I'm 'too important to your purposes'?"

"Is that really necessary?" replied Arain. "I'd think it would be pretty obvious."

"Because I'm Jedi. . . or I was, anyway. You expect me to use my Jedi training to help you win your war."

Fer'mia heard something that seemed almost tortured in the boy's tone, and turned to stare at him with speculative eyes. "Were you thinking of _not_ using it? Because, frankly, I don't care how good you are with a blaster or a blade; weapons masters I've got, in spades. But Jedi? That I didn't have, until now. Are you saying that I still don't?"

Obi-Wan sighed. "No. At least, not exactly. If I'm to join your fight, I'll have no other choice. It's all I know. But . . ."

"But you're not thrilled about it, are you?"

"I don't expect you to understand," replied the boy, with a small smile.

"Try me."

"I've spent my whole life training, to learn how to stop wars, just like this one. Instead, I'm going to fight one. It takes some readjusting."

Fer-mia allowed himself a lop-sided smile. "Try to look on the bright side. Maybe your precious Jedi will come charging to the rescue, and you'll be there to join in with them."

It was as if a shadow had abruptly materialized in the well-lit cabin and wrapped itself around the Jedi expatriate. Suddenly the brightness within the cockpit seemed muted, filtered, oppressed. "It doesn't work that way," sighed Obi-Wan, slumping slightly. Then he straightened sharply. "But you have my pledge on one thing, Captain. Whatever the Order does or does not do, you will have the complete attention and devotion of one who was almost a Jedi. As long as it doesn't run counter to the vows I made to the knighthood."

The smuggler couldn't quite suppress a look of surprise. "Those vows are still binding? Even now?"

The boy nodded. "The vows are lifetime vows and have less to do with the Order, than with the Force. I may be expelled from the Jedi, but the Force remains with me. And I must remain obedient to its purpose."

Arain Fer'mia merely nodded, while observing to himself that he had never in his life seen such an act of bald courage from someone so completely devastated by loss. 

The crew of the _Lady Ghost_ would accept this young one quickly, or else! But he didn't think that caveat would be necessary.

"So," said the boy, as a series of electronic tones sounded and the shuttle's thrusters ignited in response, "what's the crew complement, and how many can I expect to try to kill me?"

Fer'mia grinned, placing his hands on the yoke to steer the shuttle into the yawning berth in the belly of the sleek corvette. "Full complement is thirty-four, though we're six short right now. Five, after you. As for the ones who'll take a run at you? Not many. Three, four maybe. Six, tops."

Obi-Wan swallowed audibly. "Separately, or all at once?"

 

******************* ************************ ************************

 

The interior of the _Lady Ghost_ was not quite as impressive as the exterior, mainly because it was cluttered and crowded and looked as if it had always been that way, and probably always would.

As Captain Fer'mia set the tiny, battered shuttle down among a small cadre of fighter craft and adjacent to one streamlined run-about, Obi-Wan's eyes were constantly in motion, observing, evaluating, cataloging. Fer'mia was quick to realize that the boy's appearance of nonchalance was a perfect camouflage for keen intelligence and razor sharp perceptions.

When they walked down the landing ramp, the Captain noted that there were far more crewmembers present in the shuttle bay than would ordinarily have been expected at this hour of the day. None were blatantly ogling the new arrival, but a few came fairly close, until they noticed that their Captain was apparently not amused by their scrutiny. Then they got busy elsewhere. But still they made no move to leave the bay, and Fer'mia was forced to stifle a trace of annoyance.

One would think the buggers had never seen a new crewmember before. A glimpse of young Kenobi, caught just at the corner of his eye, forced Fer'mia to smile slightly. Well, okay. Maybe they never had seen one quite like this. The young Jedi (Fer'mia simply couldn't get his mind to consider the kid _ex_ -anything) didn't so much stroll down the ramp, as swagger, and the cut of slim trousers, silky shirt, soft knee-high boots, and casual jacket emphasized the trim, muscled body within. The Captain noted, with approval, that Kenobi had tucked his lightsaber into the waistband at the small of his back, where it was concealed by the loose cut of the jacket.

Obi-Wan's eyes continued to move with design and purpose as they neared the bottom of the ramp and came toe to toe with an obstacle that - apparently - had decided it would not be moved.

"Good morning, Palani," said Captain Fer'mia, not bothering to conceal the amusement lighting his face.

"Captain." Palani Vau-Bremayne was Corellian, in the most classic sense. She was tall, several centimeters taller than Fer'mia and, thus, able to look right down her nose at both of the new arrivals; broad of shoulder and hip, big-busted, tattooed at forearm and throat, stern of visage, inordinately fond of black leather, and intimidated by no living creature in the known universe. Her eyes, a hot, searing blue that provided a striking contrast to hair so black it seemed to swallow light, regarded the slender stranger standing before her with cold disdain.

For his part, Obi-Wan simply looked up at her with polite interest. Fer'mia was forced to hide a snicker as he recognized, through the subtlest of unconscious body language, that Palani was annoyed, not only by the boy's refusal to be intimidated, but by his apparent failure to notice that he had reason to be.

From her perspective, Palani - first mate of the _Lady Ghost_ \- suppressed a groan. Had Fer'mia finally lost his mind? What was he thinking bringing this - this - this delectable little morsel into the midst of a group of beings of which the truest thing that could be said, was that they were sexual predators?

"Palani Vau-Bremayne," said the Captain, and she was almost sure he was virtually reading her mind, "meet Obi-Wan Kenobi, our new engineer, and co-pilot."

Palani would have acknowledged the introduction with no more than a brief nod, but the young man was Coruscant and Temple-bred, and extended his hand with a smile. When she engulfed the slender appendage with what could only be termed a massive paw, she was somewhat surprised to find that the hand was neither soft nor manicured, but heavily callused and, apparently, work-worn. Maybe there was more here than met the eye.

Without conscious thought, or any inclination to ask permission, the Corellian retained her hold on the hand, and turned it palm up. She quickly noted the pattern of calluses, and the surprising strength and length of the fingers. "Swordsman?" she asked, staring down into eyes that she knew immediately could prove hazardous to the emotional health of every able-bodied crewman aboard.

"Excellent," he answered, impressed despite his determination to remain cool and reserved.

"Yes," said Fer'mia, favoring his first mate with a peculiar look, "our Palani is quite perceptive."

"Captain," she said firmly, dropping Kenobi's hand as if just remembering that she was holding it, "may I speak with you, privately?"

"Of course," Fer'mia answered. "Give me a minute to introduce Obi-Wan to Rakoo, and I'll meet you in my quarters."

"Rakoo?" echoed Obi-Wan.

"Yeah." Fer'mia didn't - quite - stutter, but it was a near thing. "Sorry, Kid, but everyone who joins us has to go through it. It's the one rule no one ever tries to break."

Obi-Wan sighed. "Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like this?"

Fer'mia nodded. "Rakoo is our ship's healer."

"I just saw a healer, yesterday," objected the young Jedi.

"Yeah, I know you did. But that was _your_ healer, whose only concern was taking care of you. Our healer has a slightly different focus. His purpose is to protect us. He'll make sure that you are capable of carrying your share of the load, and that you're not carrying anything else unpleasant."

Obi-Wan sighed. "You people really are paranoid."

Fer'mia grinned. "It's not paranoia, if someone is actually out to get you."

"I really hate going to healers," muttered the newcomer.

"Yeah," said Fer'mia, with a soft laugh, "I heard. But even I couldn't get away with breaking this rule. It won't take long; Rakoo is very good, and very fast."

Palami made a noise suddenly, deep in her throat, which might, just might, have been an aborted chuckle.

Which suddenly made Obi-Wan wary. Until this moment, everything had been pretty much as he'd expected, including the Captain's precautionary words concerning the need to earn the respect of the crew, but something in the eyes of the first mate gave him pause, as he followed the Captain out of the shuttle bay. There had definitely been something odd in her expression as she watched their departure; he just couldn't quite put his finger on it.

As they approached sickbay, Fer'mia appeared to be deep in thought, and Obi-Wan's uneasiness grew exponentially, until he felt as if there were a collision warning blaring in his brain.

Just meters from their destination, the young Jedi stopped, and eyed the Captain with open suspicion. "You planning to drop the other shoe?" he asked with a small smile, "Or do you think I'm just going to waltz in there and trust that there are no big surprises waiting?"

Fer'mia's grin was decidedly rueful. "One can always hope."

"So?"

"Rakoo is . . . Pholtchz."

Except for a dark flicker in his eyes, Obi-Wan appeared to take the news stoically. "You're kidding."

"Unfortunately, I'm not."

"And you expect me to . . ."

"Everyone else did."

"Including you?"

"Well, not exactly. The ship, after all, belongs to me."

Obi-Wan's eyes narrowed, and gave birth to a gleam of speculation. "Well, then, that raises an interesting question, Captain."

"Which would be what?"

The young Jedi grinned, and Fer'mia noted that there was just the faintest element of defiance in those sea-change eyes. "How bad do you want me?"

Fer'mia appeared to consider the question seriously. "Bad enough to consider giving in to what you want. But, if I do, I undermine my position with my crew. Do you seriously want to ask me to do that?"

"Not at all. What I want you to do, is swallow the same bitter pill you're asking me to take."

Now it was Fer'mia's turn to be disgruntled, for, in truth, he didn't like the prospect of submitting to the ministrations of the Pholtchz healer any more than the Jedi did.

The Pholtchz were totally unique among all the species of the galaxy, insofar as anyone knew. They were officially classified as a species of insect, and they had developed some truly remarkable capabilities during their evolution, one of which served to make them extraordinarily gifted healers and even better diagnosticians, for many, diverse species.

The only problem with this ability was that it entailed the use of a most unusual organ in a way that many sentient beings found less than pleasant.

The Pholtchz, it was said, could diagnose virtually anything, from the P'tockian Syndrome, which afflicted post-menopausal wookiees, to Minumban Fever, to which Bothans were particularly vulnerable, to any of the dozens of forms of cancer which were prevalent mostly among humans. And they could usually do so at far earlier stages of the various diseases than any medical instrumentation could detect.

But, as in all things, there was a catch. The diagnosis was performed in a process that was colloquially known as "sipping". The Pholtchz used a tongue - a very long, very flexible tongue, packed with tiny nodes which served to distinguish subtle variations in flavor - to taste their patients, and such was the sensitivity of the organ in question, that they were able to render diagnosis, prognosis, and suggested treatment with amazing speed, all based on the flavor of various body fluids and surfaces.

They were remarkably accurate, and their cure rates were phenomenal. And, without exception, every human, and most other sentient species, despised the entire process.

Fer'mia finally smiled. "I'm the Captain, and I don't take orders, Little One. Now, shall we get this over with or should I just toss you out the airlock, and see how well you can breathe vacuum."

Obi-Wan actually chuckled. "Better than you think; I'm Jedi. Remember?"

And Fer'mia reached out and laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Yeah, and I'm delighted to see that you do, too."

In a gesture that was obviously unconscious, the young man ran fingers behind his right ear, and was momentarily non-plussed not to find what he was seeking. The flash of pain in his eyes was just that - a flash, gone almost before it registered - but it was no less intense for its brevity. Fer'mia knew at once that it might be out of sight, but it would be a very, very long time before it was out of mind.

In sickbay, the Pholtchz came swarming forward, all chitinous appendages, and hirsute extensions, and - dwarfing everything else - that tongue, bright cherry-red and curling in on itself, and looking somehow ravenous, and - there was no other term for it - obscene. 

Obi-Wan, when Fer'mia left him, was looking both mutinous and defensive, while Rakoo looked like Rakoo always looked. Only more so. As always, in the presence of healthy, young, human males. A fact which Fer'mia had neglected to mention to his newest crewmember, the fondness of this particular Pholtchz for this one particular species and gender.

Fer'mia tried to resist a smile, but didn't try too hard. The boy would not be harmed, of course; the Pholtchz was a truly gifted and dedicated healer. He was just enchanted with young human males. So enchanted that the 'sipping' occasionally was elevated to the point where the sips became gulps. But that was the extent of it, and it was all harmless, in the end. Rakoo had never actually bitten anyone - yet. Of course, he (actually "it", as the Pholtchz were hermaphroditic) had never had a specimen quite like Obi-Wan Kenobi before either; by the gods, the boy was exquisite.

Fer'mia figured, correctly, that, by the time young Kenobi was able to extract himself from the dubious embraces of the healer, he would be more than ready to take on any more of the conventional predators he might encounter among the crew.

******************* ************************ *******************

The Captain's quarters of the _Lady Ghost_ were relatively spacious, if compared to a broom closet aboard a battle cruiser. There was room for a narrow bunk, a small desk, a compact communications unit, a tiny private 'fresher, and the only luxury which Arain Fer'mia not only allowed himself, but demanded. One full-length, deck-to-overhead, parasteel observation port, which, because of the curvature of the hull, was a convex sweep of transparency that allowed him to look deep into the myriad wonders of space from a splendid variety of angles.

Palani Vau-Bremayne was leaning against the bulkhead, staring out toward the galactic core, when Fer'mia entered, her huge, slightly bulbous eyes reflecting the brilliance of the starfield.

"Privately, Palani?" he asked archly, settling himself into his one other luxury - the free-form desk chair that instantly conformed to the contours of his body. "When do we ever speak 'privately'?"

She turned to stare at him, and he realized immediately that his first mate was teetering on the brink of losing her prodigious temper.

"Apparently," she shot back, "since you've lost your mind."

He smiled, refusing to take the bait. "I'm sure you're going to explain that."

"By the gods, Rain. Why don't you just hang a sign around his neck that says, 'Fresh meat. The fuck starts here'?"

The Captain remained unperturbed. "It's not like you to make snap judgments," he observed.

"Snap judgments? Son of a Sith, Rain. Have you forgotten the little strumpet from Alderaan? We almost had a riot on board, and he was a womprat compared to this one. This one is raw-sex-and-poetry-in-motion. So what am I supposed to think? You get a call from Coruscant; you bring us tearing in to the core like the harhounds from hell are nipping at our heels; you disappear in a tricked-out shuttle; and three hours later, you walk in like the catling crunching on bird feathers, with this pretty little baby doll trailing behind you."

"Baby doll?" By this time, Fer'mia was having a genuinely hard time suppressing his laughter.

"You think this is funny?" Palani was rapidly losing what little patience she had left. "He walks like a hooker."

"I'm pretty sure," replied the Captain, straight-faced, "that he learned to walk as a baby, and hasn't had a single lesson since."

She stared at him, obviously determined to get some kind of response from him that did not involve his trademark sarcasm. "Is he your lover?" she asked finally. "Is that what we've come to? A place of privilege for your oh-so-gorgeous little piece of ass?"

Well, she thought, as he surged to his feet, at least she had gotten his attention. Which, she suddenly decided, might not be quite as good a thing as she had expected.

Palani was an extremely large, extremely strong woman, not to mention virtually fearless, but she was forced to admit (to herself only) that Arain Fer'mia, at that exact moment, was a decidedly scary-looking little bastard.

"You will never, _never_ say such a thing again," he said, his voice thick with ice, as he leaned forward on his fists " Neither to me, nor to him. It demeans me, but more importantly, it demeans him. I will explain nothing to you, any more than I plan to explain to anyone else. Obi-Wan must make his own way among us, in order to be effective in the role he is to play. But know this, my dear. Your judgments are ludicrous, and you will live to understand the stupidity of your assumptions. And, as long as I am Captain of this ship, you will respect my decisions. I expect the crew to challenge his right to be here; I don't expect it from you."

The first mate was decidedly shocked by the intensity of his response, but they had known each other too well for too long for her to back off simply because he told her to do so. "OK, Boss. But you better keep one thing in mind; he better be good. I mean, he better be really, really good. Because most of them are going to take one look, and start figuring how to get him out of those pants and into their beds, with or without his consent. Those that are already inclined that way are going to stroke out just thinking about him, and the ones that aren't might just change their minds. He's that pretty. So don't say I didn't warn you if you wind up with a pitched battle on your hands."

"Palani," he said, with a smirk, "do I detect a trace of interest?"

Her laugh was loud and raucous. "It would take a marble statue to ignore that. But I'm not the one you - or he - needs to worry about. I like my pets willing."

"He can handle it," he assured her. "He's going to surprise you, and anyone else who thinks they're free to take anything they want."

She nodded finally, and turned to depart, somewhat hastily.

"Where's the fire?" he called after her.

She looked back at him, with a venal smile. "I figure you're going to rescue him from Rakoo any minute now, and take him to the mess hall for lunch. If I know our swell bunch of perverts, the fun's going to start almost immediately, and I intend to have a front row seat. You're convinced he can stand up against guys like Jebbitz and Crupp? Well, no offense, Boss. But this I gotta see."

"Twenty daktaris?" he called, grinning broadly.

"You are definitely on."

 

************** ************************* ******************

 

Dr. Maleonaka Sirvik observed - to himself, of course, as he wasn't nearly crazy enough to risk saying it aloud - that N'vell, lovely N'vell, beauteous N'vell, and thoroughly vain N'vell really should begin to confine her public appearances to evening hours, for the pitiless focus of natural sunlight had begun to emphasize the faint tracery of fine lines in her face that marked the inevitable march of years, and the planes and angles of her visage, which were gentled and soothed by the soft brush of twilight and creeping darkness, were merely harsh in the midday brilliance.

Still, she remained a striking figure, and she dressed the part to perfection. N'vell did not wear pastels or subdued styles or fashions. N'vell made statements - with her wardrobe, with her lifestyle, with her power - and would, no doubt, continue to do so until she had nothing more to say. He couldn't imagine such a circumstance ever happening. 

Right now, for example, she had plenty to say, none of it pleasant. He let her rant, allowing her tirade to cascade over him like the roar of a waterfall; in truth, there was probably as much intellect in the one as in the other.

Basically, N'vell was expending a great deal of time and energy and breath in the repetition of one thought: I told you so.

The rant had been going on for approximately ten minutes now, and he thought, just maybe, there were signs that her fury was beginning to wane. Noting that her cosmetic mask of perfection was - very slightly - cracked, and that the jet beads glittering on her collar threw garish flashes of brilliance across her face in a not entirely flattering manner, he waited until she stopped for breath.

"If you're quite finished," he said quickly, before she could get herself wound up again, "would you now like to know where he is?"

For once, he had the enormous satisfaction of seeing her gaping like a fish out of water as she tried to understand his meaning. "But you said . . ."

"Yes, my dear, I did," he admitted. "I said my operatives lost him. But I didn't say that they didn't pick up the trail again. I told you from the start; they're very good."

"You said he left the planet," she said, unwilling to surrender her suspicions so easily.

"He did."

"In the company of an individual who apparently had a privately owned ship available."

"Correct again."

Her fury threatened to rise again in hard, sapphire eyes. "Then how can you know . . ."

"Calm yourself, N'vell. We've identified the man he left with."

She narrowed her eyes as she studied his face. "You're looking entirely too smug, Mali," she said suddenly. "Let's have it. What are you keeping from me?"

He laughed as he moved to pour himself some of her excellent brandy. "I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing, my pet. I was just waiting for you to run out of breath."

Then he looked up and saw a bottomless darkness within her eyes - and almost choked on his brandy. "He's joined the Ghost Fleet, N'vell. They're on their way to Drimula, as we speak. It was Fer'mia who picked him up."

Only someone who knew the princess of Telos well would have noted the tiny flare in perfectly shaped nostrils and the faint quiver of her full bottom lip, and realized the significance of the response. N'vell was overwhelmed with delight. Could life, she wondered, possibly get any better?

 

************************* *********************** **********************

 

Master Qui-Gon Jinn walked through the corridors of the Great Jedi Temple in complete silence, choosing to ignore any whispers - real or imagined - that followed him through the sun-dappled halls. He was headed for the healers' wing, having only just awakened to find himself slumped against the sleep couch in the bedroom formerly occupied by his padawan learner. Ex-padawan learner. He needed to remember that.

He tucked his hands deeper into the sleeves of his robe, as he became aware of the presence of others in the corridors; none seemed to be paying any attention to him, but he nevertheless avoided any possibility of eye contact by keeping his focus narrowed to the floor directly in his path.

He had risen from his uncomfortable resting place and looked around him at the scanty remnants of the life he had shared with his ex-padawan, and decided that it would be foolish (certainly not painful - now where had that thought come from) to hang onto the tiny cache of possessions. So he had simply swept everything - clothing, datapads, mission briefings, medals, trophies, awards, holopics - everything) into a large canvas bag, and dropped it into a recycling bin. 

Everything. All gone. Well - almost all. 

He had kept only two things. Even though he had tried to throw them both away, somehow, he simply could not. So, in the end, he had tucked the river stone, with its warm bands of light, into a secure pouch on his belt.

That left one thing: the most intimate thing of all. And, again, he had tried to throw it away. Had almost succeeded. Had walked out onto the terrace with its dizzying view of the Coruscant skyline, and raised his hand to toss it out into the morning light. And, somehow, couldn't. Should have - but couldn't.

His braid.

From a cubbyhole in his desk, he had found a silken pouch of dark blue, saved for some long-forgotten reason, probably from some long-forgotten mission.

It had served the purpose admirably, providing a perfect receptacle for the coiled braid that had gleamed so enticingly in the morning light, making the Master's breath catch in his throat as he remembered how the sun could touch the crown of that young (usually sleepy) head with gentle fire.

The braid, in the pouch, resided now in the locked compartment of the huge desk that dwarfed the Master's bedroom. One day, undoubtedly, he would throw it out; it would be foolish to hang onto it indefinitely. He was gone, never to return. His braid should go too; just not quite yet.

As he had tucked the silky pouch into the cubbyhole, he had wondered for a moment about the lightsaber. It most certainly should not have been given to that arrogant Corellian; the saber had been built under Qui-Gon's direction. It should have been surrendered to him. And never mind that it would have been awkward for _him_. If there were any justice at all, he should have had to endure a lot more than mere awkwardness. The Master was certain that, if recent events had occurred any place in the galaxy other than within the confines of the Temple, the apprentice would have had to face criminal charges. 

But the Jedi, whenever possible, kept their own counsel about things that happened within the Temple. So he would, almost certainly, get away with what he had done. (And why would that voice within him not stop insisting that the young man could not have done such a thing. Of course, he could. The Master, after all, had seen him. And if that little voice kept asking, over and over again, what exactly he had really seen, he thought he might just go a bit mad and try to expunge the interloper from his thoughts.)

The healers' wing was no more calm this morning than it had been during the night; there were simply too many people either living within or passing through the Great Temple at any given time for the healers to be granted much respite from their duties.

As he pushed through the broad entrance to the wing, he almost collided full-length with a slender figure draped in a cloak of gray blue. He opened his mouth to apologize for his clumsiness and recognized the gentle, salmon-colored face beneath the hood of the cape. Padawan Bant regarded him with huge, liquid eyes that always seemed, somehow, to see more than others could.

"Master Jinn," she said softly, respectfully, but there was little of respect in her face, despite what was in her voice.

"Bant," he replied. "I apologize for my distraction. I might have injured you."

Her smile was bittersweet. "I'm not so fragile as you apparently believe, Master Jinn. No harm done."

"Are you well, Padawan?" His tone betrayed polite interest; nothing more.

"Well enough," she replied. "Ciara and I came down to check on the little girl."

"Indeed," he responded, something in his midnight eyes suggesting that he was less than sanguine with this turn of events. "And how is she?"

"Still comatose. Healer Soljan seems to think that she should have awakened by now and is quite perplexed."

"And ill-tempered, no doubt," he observed, more to himself than to her.

Bant's huge eyes seemed, impossibly, to grow larger. "There are many in the Temple today, Master Jinn, who could be described as 'ill-tempered'. Many who have suffered a grievous loss. Obi-Wan was much loved here."

The Master almost gasped, then felt a flash of sheer rage; was he now going to react in such a fashion to even hearing that name! "But not by you, Padawan Bant," he replied. "Unless I am mistaken, you had issues with him."

She was completely serene. "No, Master Jinn. I had - and have - issues with you. I simply followed the path of least resistance, and took it out on him. But it wasn't Obi-Wan who made the decision to keep my Master's plight from me, to keep me from aiding in her rescue. It was you. Your single-minded determination to control everything in your own way, almost drove me from the Jedi, and now it has driven Obi-Wan away."

"Padawan," he said sternly, "I will not be spoken to in that manner."

She shrugged. "Report me then. I think you may find that there are some things even the great Qui-Gon Jinn cannot do, with impunity. There are many among us - knights, padawans, even Masters - who find that, today at least, we are not proud to be Jedi. Perhaps you should be congratulated; that's a feat I doubt has ever been accomplished before."

And she turned and walked away, without a backward glance.

He knew he should call her back and administer a severe reprimand. Perhaps even haul her, physically, before her Master for suitable punishment.

The thing was that he wasn't entirely sure that her Master wouldn't agree with her. And to be bested by a padawan, in such a confrontation, would hardly be in keeping with his image as an exalted Jedi Master.

Best to just let it alone. Things would simmer down shortly, in a few days, at most. Especially when Temple residents began to sit up and take notice of the skills and sheer genius of his new padawan. Xani would make them all forget the other - soon enough.

 

******************* ******************** ******************

 

Xani watched the Healer's apprentice as she checked the monitoring equipment and entered data into his electronic chart. She was a Bith, and Xani thought her homely as a Hutt. But then, Xani thought most non-human species homely, and inferior. 

This was not, he knew, an acceptable belief within the framework of Jedi philosophy, but then, neither were most of his other beliefs. Xani had no illusions about his place within the knighthood; he didn't have one, and never would. But he had to maintain the fiction of having one, for a while. Until he had accomplished his mission among the Jedi and was free to ascend to his rightful place as the heir to his father's estate and power.

Xani had not yet learned that wealth and social position might be inherited, but power must always be earned or seized.

"Are you comfortable, Young One?" asked the Bith, in her sibilant accent.

"Hardly," he replied, just shy of rudeness. "This place is cold and drafty, and it smells."

She bowed her head slightly. "I am sorry the accommodations fail to please you. Can I get you anything?"

Xani looked with distaste at the bits of food congealing now on his untouched breakfast tray. "Something fit for human consumption would be nice."

The Bith favored him with a smile that - he supposed - was meant to convey sympathy before making her exit, as a clatter at the doorway heralded a new arrival. The boy's eyes widened as a young female - human, exceedingly human - entered abruptly. "Problems, Your Majesty?" she asked, voice heavily laced with sarcasm. "Is the little prince not happy with the service?"

"Who are you?" He was careful to lace his tone with just the correct amount of hauteur.

"Padawan Barosse, at your service," she replied, sweeping him a mocking bow. "How can we serve, Your Majesty?"

Xani was doing a slow burn, escalating quickly into a fast boil. "Do not mock me," he spat.

Ciara managed, barely, not to laugh in his face. If she were to achieve any kind of success in the fact-finding mission she had set for herself, she would be better off not alienating her prime source. "Sorry," she said with a smile. "Just kidding. How can we help you?"

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "You're not a healer's apprentice."

"You're right. I'm not. I'm just gathering some data, for my Master. He's looking into what happened. The accident and all."

"Accident?" the boy snarled. "This was no accident. Kenobi tried to kill me, and he did kill Yoni. How can you call that an accident?"

She studied his face. "How do you know he was trying to kill you? I mean, it could have been accidental, couldn't it?"

"He pushed me," he snapped, "and he meant to. And you people are just going to let him get away with it, aren't you? You just let him go, didn't you?"

"What makes you think he's gone?" she asked, all wide-eyed innocence.

He snickered rudely. "Guess you're not really in the know, are you? If you don't even know he's gone."

She sighed, carefully suppressing the spear of excitement rising within her. "I'm just a lowly padawan," she said. "Nobody tells me anything."

A quick glance at his face made the girl lower her head to conceal her own triumphant smile, and the thought accompanying it: bait taken - hook, line, and sinker.

"Well, I'll tell you," he said smugly, "because I think everybody ought to be told what happens to Jedi who attack innocent people. He's gone, and he won't be coming back. Because, where he's going, they're going to make sure he pays for his crimes. All his crimes." Including having the gall to think he could replace Xani's father.

His smile was brilliant as he looked up at the padawan - the very pretty, bright-eyed padawan - and noticed her sharp intake of breath.

Slowly, she leaned forward until her hands were braced on the edge of his bed. "And just how," she said softly, "would you know where he's going? No one knows that, except Obi, and he didn't tell anyone."

He looked into her near-black eyes and saw the truth; saw that she had already grasped the truth.

"Gotcha!" she said with a grin. "I don't know who you're in contact with, Little Man, or how you're doing it, but I will figure it out. Count on it. And eventually, even the great Qui-Gon Jinn will see what a fraud you are."

She straightened and moved to depart. Xani, of course, could hardly permit that. He wasn't sure how much he could accomplish, without his focusing medium or the help of his crib mates, but he knew he had to do something. He closed his eyes and stretched out his hands, dark tendrils of Force swirling around his consciousness.

Some two minutes later, Master Jinn entered the room, and immediately shouted for help.

Ciara Barosse lay sprawled near the boy's bed, her arms outflung as if she had attempted to ward off an attack, an ugly bruise discoloring the side of her throat and half of her face. She was breathing, but not steadily or deeply, and her color was peculiar, shading from rose pink to bluish lavender around her lips.

In the bed, the boy had collapsed against his pillows, a trail of scarlet dripping from his nostrils, his face as pale as the sheets beneath him.

******************* ********************** ************************

Alain Fer'mia was almost biting his tongue in an effort to keep from laughing, but he wasn't having much luck. Every time young Kenobi looked his way, and allowed his obvious disgruntlement to bleed into his blue-green eyes, the smuggler almost choked on his food. 

As it turned out, Fer'mia's vague misgivings in leaving the Jedi apprentice with the Pholtchz had not been entirely without cause; Rakoo had, apparently, been overcome with temptation, and actually allowed itself a small bite of lovely, pale gold Jedi skin. Kenobi had reacted predictably, and it had taken all of Fer'mia's not inconsiderable diplomatic skills to persuade the boy to shut down the lightsaber without allowing it to take a similar bite out of the Pholtchz's carapace.

The mess hall of the _Lady Ghost_ was identical to such facilities on every vessel of every fleet in known space. A large area of long tables and benches, with a serving line running along one wall. In military vessels or passenger transports, there were usually clear divisions between officers and crew and/or passengers. But this was no ordinary vessel, even though it operated along military lines in its chain of command. In the mess hall, all were treated equally, and expected to behave in the same way. Which was not always necessarily a good thing.

When Fer'mia had strode into the large chamber with Kenobi at his side, the buzz of conversation had faltered briefly, but resumed almost immediately, if at a slightly more subdued volume. But if mouths continued to speak and consume food, eyes were otherwise occupied. Almost to a man, everyone watched as the young stranger followed the Captain down the serving line and took a seat at the table already occupied by the first mate and a couple of lower ranking officers, including Zark Quebal, second in command.

Introductions were made - briefly - and the business of eating began.

Obi-Wan took one bite, and his eyes widened.

"Something wrong with your food?" asked the first mate, a broad grin on her face.

He managed a smile. "It's very . . . . ."

"Salty?" she prompted.

"Exactly."

She laughed. "Get used to it, Kid. Our chef - you'll meet him later - is convinced that salt is the elixir of life, as well as the - let's see now, how does he put it - the . . . . ."

"Aphrodisiac of the gods," supplied Fer'mia drily. "And she's right, Obi. Get used to it. I've been fighting with him for six years to get him to change. And he did. He got worse."

Obi-Wan laughed, and Palami was charmed by the sound of it, exactly as the hulking group of three sitting at an adjacent table were. Apparently, it was the catalyst they had been awaiting, as they rose as one and stepped forward.

Obi-Wan, of course, felt the Force screaming in his ear as the men moved to stand behind him, and took a moment to stare down at him. He calmly took another - salty - bite of his lunch before raising his head to stare back, catching just the briefest glimpse of the smile in the Captain's eyes as he did so.

"Can I help you, Gentlemen?" he asked, projecting nothing but calm and confidence.

"Awww," said one of them, the biggest one, who could probably have benchpressed a bantha or two in a pinch, "isn't that sweet? Just listen to that accent, Boys. Real class, that."

Obi-Wan smiled. "I'm glad you like it. But we're in the middle of lunch, here, so, if you don't mind . . ."

"But we do mind," said the second of the three, shorter and darker than the first, but probably just as strong. "You want to know how to help us, Sweet thing? Why don't you just stand up, and let us show you. Although I doubt you'll be on your feet for long. I think getting down on your knees would be much better, for starters."

Obi-Wan looked toward Fer'mia, and the smuggler could almost hear the thought. _No mind whammy, huh?_

Beside the Captain, Palami was watching with a gleam of speculation in her blazing eyes.

With a sigh, Obi-Wan pushed his lunch tray away, and rose to his feet, turning slowly to face his would-be tormentors. "You know," he said, very softly, "you really don't want to do this."

And while he was using admirable restraint, he couldn't completely avoid inserting just a faint trace of Jedi compulsion in his voice. For a moment, the three looked confused and uncertain.

But only for a moment.

The third man, all sinews and tendons, with thick lips and a jutting chin, apparently thought it was time for him to make a contribution to the conversation. "You're wrong, Pretty Thing. We really do want to do this. You're prettier than most girls I've ever seen, and we been off planet for a long, long time. Me and my friends would just love to show you around. We could be your new best friends. And we'd take real good care of a pretty little thing like you. So you see, we really do want to do this - with you."

Obi-Wan finally just shrugged. "OK, but don't say I didn't warn you."

One hand darted forward, in the general vicinity of the young Jedi's crotch, only to jerk to a halt, inches away from its target, held by what could only be described as an invisible grip. That was speaker number two. From number one, came an attempt to engulf the young man in a massive bear hug, an attempt that resulted in the behemoth rebounding from his intended target and landing on his backside with a resounding "WHAP". The third man, the most verbose of the three, leaned forward, and Obi-Wan didn't bother waiting to see what his intentions were; he simply jabbed upward with his elbow, catching the smitten cretin under his jaw, resulting in the unmistakable sound of bone cracking.

The man who had originally attempted only a grope withdrew his fist from the grip of . . . whatever it was that had grabbed it, and drew back to throw a crushing roundhouse blow to that beautiful face; it was a shame to be forced to damage such loveliness, but the boy obviously had to be taught a lesson. The massive fist started forward, reached its peak momentum, and was caught in Obi-Wan's hand . Caught - and stopped dead. Obi-Wan, of course, though much stronger than he appeared, would hardly have been able to accomplish such a feat on his own, but the strength of the Force was boundless. The young Jedi had not even broken a sweat, as he continued to wield the unseen energy field like a weapon.

"Had enough?" he asked, in that same pleasant voice.

"What the fuck?" said the bruiser whose fist was still held motionless. "That's bloody impossible."

"Nothing is impossible," replied Obi-Wan, pushing the man away from him, and calmly turning to resume his seat.

But they weren't done quite yet, and the next Force warning came only just in the nick of time. 

From the floor where he had fallen, behemoth number one had hurled a heavy, broad-bladed dagger, with all of his considerable strength behind it. This had gone beyond the bounds of mere lust now; they could not allow this angelic little doll to overpower three seasoned warriors, even if it meant they had to give up dreams of making much better use of that sexy body.

There was no time for deflection or for ducking or for any of a dozen other reactions that might have looked sufficiently natural to deflect any questions. Obi-Wan had only one option, as the dagger blazed toward his heart. He reached out, and caught it.

There was total silence in the mess hall, as all eyes focused on the bright blade and the steady fingers that enclosed it.

Arain Fer'mia sighed broadly. He had hoped to delay this moment just a bit longer, but there was no hope for it now. 

He rose and let his eyes sweep the room, reading the blatant suspicion in the eyes of his crew. 

"All hands," he said abruptly. "Please welcome our newest recruit. This, as you've surely heard, is Obi-Wan Kenobi. Recently of Coruscant. Originally of K'hiria Melas." He paused, and knew that he had no choice but to give them the rest. He would have to trust young Kenobi to follow his lead. "Jedi knight."

Obi-Wan's eyes opened wide as he stared at the Captain, but he didn't dispute the claim. Not just yet, anyway.

From a table adjacent to the one at which they stood, a slender figure, concealed beneath a complex arrangement of body armor, moved quickly forward and plucked the Jedi's lightsaber from beneath his jacket. Obi-Wan inhaled sharply, as he turned to confront this new threat. It was uncertain which surprised him more; that someone had actually managed to snag his saber without his consent, or that he hadn't sensed the attempt coming.

"Not quite, I think," said the voice from within the armor - atonal, mechanical. 

There was no way to identify the individual who held the saber, not even by species - for the armor extended to cover the entire body, crown to toe, and the face was obscured beneath a dark breathing mask. Not quite Mandalorian armor, Obi-Wan thought, but similar.

Captain Fer'mia smiled. "OK, so I exaggerated, but only slightly. He simply hasn't gone through the actual knighting ritual."

"May I have my lightsaber, please," said Obi-Wan, hand extended.

The armored figure leaned forward. "Have a care, Jedi. Some of these 'warriors' are inclined to hold a grudge." The lightsaber was extended, hilt first, exactly as it should have been.

"Obi-Wan," said Fermia, with a hint of pride in his voice, "this is Solitaire. My weapons master. And don't be embarrassed. I once saw him disarm a nightsister, in three moves."

The young Jedi replaced his blade in his waistband and studied the weapons specialist with a small grin. "You shielded your intention," he said softly. "Very good."

Sarcasm fairly dripped from the mechanical tone. "I'm so pleased you noticed, _Padawan!"_

The three behemoths, bloody, battered, and totally subdued, made their way back to their table, and resumed their meal. No apologies would be offered or expected. All three had learned a lesson; it remained to be seen whether or not they had learned _the_ lesson.

Fer'mia turned to regard his first mate with a sardonic grin.

Palami, on the other hand, was looking disgusted. "Jedi!" she almost spat. "I should have known."

"Stop whining, and pay up."

********************** ******************* *********************

tbc


	15. The Sisters Death and Night

Chapter 15: The Sisters Death and Night

 

_Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage, must in time be utterly lost; that the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash again and ever again, this soiled world._

_Drum-Taps, Reconciliation_ \-- Walt Whitman

 

Two hulking engineer's mates sat hunched on a spiral ramp that led down into the hyperdrive core, both drenched in perspiration, both intent on the scene spread out below them, while a third figure, smaller, more restless, with small, dark eyes alight with cunning, hovered above them, also dripping, also staring. Though the two seated on the ramp were obviously sharing their observation willingly, it was also obvious that neither was particularly delighted with the presence of the third. Still, they had no authority to order him elsewhere, so they simply ignored him, and concentrated on the visual feast below.

In truth, it simply wasn't that hot in the ship's engineering section, but the sight the three were focused on, was - if in a different context. 

Sprawled on the grating that covered the service pit below the shield generator, the young man's head and shoulders were completely obscured by the generator housing, but the rest of him was perfectly, resplendently, achingly visible, spread-eagled to give him leverage, bracing booted feet against horizontal stabilizer bars; bare-chested to save the silky white shirt now draped over a fuel monitor from the iridescent smear of lubricant, lubricant that was now dripping and pooling on perfect, pale gold skin. Slender, muscled legs sheathed in soft, supple, sueded leather shifted periodically to allow their owner to adjust his position relative to the machine he was working on, and, of course, every time he moved, his hips wiggled slightly, seeking better access to whatever he was trying to reach. 

The two men continued to perspire, more and more profusely, and only barely avoided moaning when a long-fingered hand, in a futile attempt to disperse some of the dripping oil, rubbed a path across the sculpted chest. The third didn't even bother trying to suppress his audible response.

Finally, the two exchanged glances. "Little bugger could give a guy a break," muttered the larger of the two.

Ruefully, the second one laughed. "Come on, Quath. Let's go grab a shower. Think of it this way. We'd both probably drop dead of a stroke. Some fantasies are just meant to remain fantasies. Ya know?"

"You guys just give up too easy," sneered the third, eyes never straying from the slender body splayed out so fetchingly below.

As the two rose, the one called Quath leveled a derisive look at the third. "You need to take a dose of reality, Batzo," he said, a strange mixture of disgust and pity in his expression. "That's so far out of your league, it's not even in the same galaxy."

Batzo Ianderou snickered, and it was not a pretty sound. "What you guys don't understand is that everything can be bought, for the right price, and at the right time. A guy just has to be willing to seize the moment, when it comes."

Quath's companion gave a brief hoot of laughter. "If you're planning to try to seize that, Batzo, you better be ready to breathe vacuum, because that is like a saber snake - beautiful, but deadly."

"Yeah, Runt," agreed Quath, deliberately employing the nickname that always served to enrage the small man, who was also known, among the crew, as the Scavenger, "better keep your ambitions - and your hands - to yourself."

"Very good, Boys," said an amused voice from above them. The two engineer's mates managed shame-faced smiles when they turned to face the first mate, while Batzo ignored the new arrival.

"No rule against looking, is there?" asked Quath.

Palani allowed herself just the smallest leer at the vision splayed out below them, and they all shared a laugh.

The two men started to depart, Batso - somewhat reluctantly - at their heels, but the smaller of them, an engineer, according to the Captain, with the soul of a mechanic, paused and glanced once more into the pit. He then looked up at Palani, and smiled. "He may be built like a young god, but he's a hell of an engineer. I think the engines are just as queer for him, as we are."

She nodded, continuing to stare down at the subject of their conversation, who had now turned on his side to reach for something, thus providing a spectacular view of flexing muscles and a washboard-flat abdomen and a perfectly-rounded bottom. "That's not all," she admitted. "You ought to see the little bastard fly this baby. The _Lady_ practically purrs under his hands."

Quath laughed aloud. "Anybody want to bet that she's not the first?"

The first mate joined in their laughter, but there was a speculative gleam in her eyes that seemed to question their assumption.

As the engineer's mates departed in search of a (cold?) shower, Palani descended the spiral ramp and knelt beside the young body that had so enthralled her crew mates. "You need any help, Obi?"

A dull thud and a soft Huttese curse indicated that he had not noticed her approach. His face, when he slid free of the generator housing, was just as smeared with lubricant as his extremely-bare, very well-muscled chest.

"It's not a good idea to sneak up on a guy with a laser torch in his hand," he informed her.

She regarded him with a sardonic grin. "I didn't think it was even possible to sneak up on a Jedi, laser torch in hand or not."

He frowned and reached for a utility rag to wipe away the oily residue now sheeting off his body. "In trying to shut out certain - um - impressions that keep popping up, I allowed myself to become distracted."

"Hey," she said hastily, "it was a joke. You don't have to be on your guard around here, you know."

He simply stared at her.

"Okay," she said, smiling ruefully, "maybe you do, but it's not a big deal. You were involved with what you were doing."

He sighed. "But I'm not supposed to . . ." He stopped abruptly, and she saw dark wings of an ageless pain rise within his eyes.

"Not supposed to?" she prompted, but her tone was very gentle.

"It doesn't matter," he replied, laying back in preparation for sliding back into the niche in which he had been working. 

She pretended not to hear the complete desolation in his voice. "How much longer?" she asked, "And is it going to work?"

He quirked an eyebrow at her. "Why does it matter, and who's asking?"

"It matters," she answered, fighting off an incredible urge to go in search of a blanket-sized towel to wipe him down with, "because you have a training session with Solitaire, and don't give me that look, because it's Captain's orders, not mine, and the Captain is curious about whether or not your theory is going to prove out."

"It's not a theory," he replied firmly, reaching for a length of fiber gone dark among a tangle of others pulsing with light. "The Jedi have used it for decades."

"OK. For you, it's not a theory. But you need to remember, Kiddo, that it's all new to us. Frankly, it sounds like black magic. To tap into the Force to beef up defensive shielding? You know, Obi-Wan, there are still a lot of people who believe that the Force is just a . . . Jedi fairy tale."

He paused in what he was doing and looked up at her, and she felt an incredible urge to let herself just drown in those sea-change eyes. "Do you believe that, Palani?"

She took a deep breath. "Honestly? I don't know. If you had asked me a week ago, I'd probably have said 'yes'."

"And now?"

"Now," she said with a small, semi-embarrassed laugh, "there's you. And I'm having to re-examine everything I know about just about everything. I used to be a confirmed skeptic - doubting anything I couldn't prove for myself. You've pretty much screwed my entire take on life, Pretty Boy. Satisfied?"

He smiled. "Come here," he said, reaching for her hands.

She jerked backwards, alarm flaring in her eyes.

Now it was his turn to be embarrassed and to cover it with a laugh. "I'm not going to bite you," he said softly. "I want to show you something. Please. Just give me your hands."

With obvious misgivings, which suddenly sparked her sense of the ludicrous - she did, after all, outweigh him by at least sixty pounds - Palani leaned forward and allowed him to grasp her outstretched hands.

"Sorry for the mess," he said, as lubricant moved from his fingers to hers (and wasn't that just about the most erotic sensation she had experienced in longer than she cared to think about!)

He guided her hands down to enclose the control nexus he had been modifying, and positioned her fingers against its shimmering surface.

"The crystals within this node," he explained, as he closed his eyes and continued to adjust her fingers, "are Force sensitive. They're somewhat similar to the ones that power my lightsaber. Now, if I can just find the right . . ." He paused, and Palani gasped as she felt it - something warm and strong and incredibly rich with sensation, that seemed to wash through her entire body in the space of a heartbeat and stimulate nerves and sensual receptors that she had never even known she had.

She jerked her hands free of his grasp and scrambled to her feet, eyes wide and darkening with panic.

He merely sat looking up at her, a whimsical smile touching his lips. "Still doubting?"

"What was that?" she demanded. "What did you do?"

"That," he replied, "was a very tiny trace of the power of the Force."

"Impossible. In the first place, I still don't know that the Force even exists, and, in the second, even if it does, I have no Force talents."

"No," he agreed, "but I do. You felt it through me."

Her uneasiness suddenly increased, tenfold. "You can do that? You can make me feel what you're feeling?"

He smiled. "Only a little. I just wanted you to get some sense of what the Force is."

"Well, I definitely got that," she retorted. "It's scary as hell, is what it is."

"Is that all? Just scary? You didn't feel anything . . . pleasant?"

"Like what?" Her eyes narrowed as she saw amusement in his.

"Some people find it erotic," he answered, grinning now.

For just a moment, it was a toss-up whether she was going to allow herself to be amused or toss the cheeky little bastard out the nearest air lock. Then she laughed - and then laughed some more, louder and longer.

When Arain Fer'mia swung through the engineering hatch to check on Kenobi's modifications of his shield generator, he was moderately perplexed, if intensely pleased, to find his first mate and his new engineer's mate slumped bonelessly against each other, weak-kneed and helpless with laughter.

********************** ************************* ********************

 

When Master Ramal Dyprio came storming through the entrance to the healer's wing of the Jedi Temple, anyone who had been in residence in that facility long enough to remember events from the previous five years, would have been reminded of very similar appearances by one Master Qui-Gon Jinn, during those legendary episodes when one ginger-haired young padawan with incredible blue-green eyes and an even more incredible propensity for getting himself mauled, mangled, and generally messed up, had been confined to a hospital bed - or a bacta tank - or an isolation suite - or a traction unit - or any combination thereof.

Still today, there were places within the Med Section that bore his name - unofficially, of course - either because he had been the most frequent recipient of treatment in certain areas, or because certain instruments had been developed and/or obtained for the specific purpose of treating another of his unique injuries.

Many of those who were members of the inner circle of the healing hierarchy had often wondered - and occasionally still did - what it was about the youth, a youth of extraordinary gifts, that generated sufficient resentment and hatred to drive his tormentors to such excesses. The final consensus - acknowledged only in whispers and only among themselves - was that it was not the boy, but his Master who inspired such extreme measures, not to mention such perverted ingenuity in devising new and progressively more vile forms of torture to use against the apprentice.

Obi-Wan Kenobi was a walking scrapbook of Jedi healing techniques.

Or at least, he had been, until he was banished.

Healer Mirilent Soljan let that thought color her perceptions of her surroundings for just a moment, before consigning it to the area of her more personal considerations and moving quickly to intercept the Jedi Master before he barreled into his padawan's treatment room.

"Ramal," she said firmly, "I need to speak to you before you see her."

"But . . "

"Now," she insisted. She then surprised him by lowering her voice to a near whisper. "Privately, please."

Though obviously not thrilled with the delay, Ramal followed at her heels as she walked quickly to her office.

On their way, they passed the room occupied by young Xani, offspring of Xanatos, one-time padawan of Master Jinn, who just happened to be lurking (if someone that big could ever be accused of 'lurking') just outside the doorway.

Jinn's eyes glinted with cold resolve as he watched their approach.

"Healer Soljan," he called, as she drew near, "I must speak with you."

"I'm busy," she replied, without a pause.

The towering Master stepped away from the wall and directly into her path. "Nevertheless, I must insist."

So single-minded had he been in his focus on her that he had failed to take note of the identity of her companion. Until the companion decided to make a point of it.

Ramal Dyprio didn't so much move up as he sprang forward, not unlike one of the great mountain catlings native to his Corellian homeworld. "The healer is busy, Master Jinn. What part of that did you not understand?"

Qui-Gon's gaze was steady as he regarded his fellow Jedi Master. "I have no quarrel with you, Dyprio," he said firmly, "but I will speak with the Healer."

Dyprio, completely unabashed, and not at all loathe to allow his anger to flare in his eyes, took another step forward, until he was mere inches from Jinn's face. When he spoke, his voice was very soft, and, thus, audible only to the object of his attention. "Take care, Jinn. For I am no sensitive padawan with some imagined obligation to accept your abuse and respond with civility. Nor am I as bloodless and dispassionate as many within these very walls. We Corellians are the rogue branch of the Jedi - remember? Now, I have a meeting with Master Healer Soljan concerning the condition of my padawan. If you wish to wait to see her, until our business is concluded, then the choice becomes hers. I will, however, make certain that she understands that, if she chooses to decline, I will be available to see that her wishes are respected. Are we clear on that?"

"You overstep your bounds, Dyprio," answered Qui-Gon, not quite, yet, seething with rage, but very close.

Ramal Dyprio actually laughed, although there was no amusement in his night-dark eyes. "You really don't get it, do you, Jinn?"

"Get what?"

"If I were you," said the Corellian, "I'd be extremely careful where I put my feet, from now on. You're standing on wafer-thin ice, Master. The whole Temple is aware that the best thing that ever happened to you, the best thing you ever accomplished, went right out the front door yesterday. He's gone, and, if there is truly any justice in this universe, he will never come back to you. Although, it is devoutly to be hoped that he's not lost to the Jedi."

"I won't listen to this nonsense." Qui-Gon turned to return to Xani's room.

"Ask him," came the challenge from behind him.

"What?" Qui-Gon spun back to confront Dyprio. "What do you mean?"

The Corellian nodded toward the room where Xani lay. "Open yourself to the Force, and ask him what really happened. I'm betting he won't be able to hide himself well enough to avoid at least a semblance of truth sneaking through."

Master Jinn's midnight eyes flared with fury. "It's not necessary for me to grill the boy. I saw what happened."

Dyprio nodded. "You saw what you wanted to see. And isn't it strange that you saw what no one else saw? Ask him."

"I will not harass him."

Ramal Dyprio was silent for a moment, simply staring at his counterpart. Finally, he smiled wearily. "I see. There's really no point then, is there? Why risk a contradiction to a preordained conclusion?"

At this point, Mirilent Soljan stepped forward and took Dyprio's arm, her eyes sweeping over Master Jinn as if he were a particularly noxious form of fungus. "We're wasting time," she said to Ramal. "If there's anything to be done about all this . . ." She hesitated, looking for the right word, "this monumental mess, you're the one that's going to have to do it."

"What . . ." called Qui-Gon, moving to step forward again.

"I was not," she said pointedly, "talking to _you_."

With that, she practically dragged Dyprio into her office, which, under ordinary circumstances, would have been a comical sight indeed, since she was less than half his height, but there was little comedy in the mood of the Temple now, and the farcical element of the moment went unremarked. She immediately engaged the door lock.

Ramal, the most natural and unpretentious of Jedi Masters, practically flung himself into the arm chair positioned at Mirilent's desk, allowing his residual annoyance with Master Jinn to flaunt itself in the rigid lines of his body.

"Pissed you off, didn't he?" asked Mira, with a rueful smile.

"Pissed off doesn't even begin to cover it," he replied. "I'd cheerfully wipe the floor with him through all one hundred thirty-four levels of the Tower."

She nodded. "And I'd pay to watch it, but I suspect the day will come when we'll both feel sorry for the big bastard, in spite of ourselves."

"When he learns the truth," he said softly.

"Um, hmm. And he will. I intend to see to that, and you're going to help me."

Dyprio smiled. "Can I assume, from your demeanor, that my padawan is going to be all right?"

She frowned. "As far as I can tell, she's not badly injured, Ramal. But it's a little strange. It's a Force injury, no doubt of that. Something reached out and tried to sever her connection to the Force. The attempt wasn't completely successful, but it did disrupt her Force signature sufficiently to render her unconscious. The only real concern I have is that she should have shaken it off by now."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that something, or someone, is maintaining the energy barrier between her and her regular Force connection."

"And, of course," he said venomously, "it's entirely coincidental that she was found in the boy's room."

"Of course," she replied, smiling faintly. "I can assure you that she's in no danger. We can maintain her indefinitely as she is. And I could probably wake her up, if I put up Force barriers around her room. But that still wouldn't restore her connection, and it would probably scare the devil out of her until she was awake enough to understand the process."

He nodded. "OK. As long as you're sure she'll be all right. You obviously have something in mind. What do you want me to do?"

She sighed. "I wish I could give you something specific, but I can't. But it's obvious to me that Ciara struck a nerve with somebody, and learned something that she wasn't supposed to learn. We need to find out what that was."

He was silent for a moment, gazing out into the brilliance of mid-morning. "I can feel the training bond," he said finally, "but it's very subdued. Still, I could probably reach her, if necessary."

"Yes, I'm sure you could, but it might be traumatic for her. We need to be able to restore her connection to the Force before we try to wake her. Otherwise, it's going to be a painful experience. Still, if we don't find another way within a few days, then we'll have no choice. Physically she's in no danger, but an extended suppression of Force interaction can have some unpleasant side effects. Long-lasting side effects."

His eyes narrowed abruptly. "Permanent side effects?"

She sighed. "Not usually. But it has been known to happen. It really depends on the method used for suppression."

He rose and went to the window and looked up into the polished chrome of the sky. "Has anyone questioned the boy?" There was a flinty quality in his tone that she pretended not to hear.

"He's supposedly still only semi-conscious."

Near black eyes turned to regard her with surprise. "What do you mean 'supposedly'?"

"I mean," she said with icy calm, "that Master Obsessive Compulsion out there is more defensive than a mother bantha with a brand new hatchling. Once it was determined that the boy was physically unharmed, Jinn moved in and tossed everybody else out. According to him, the boy is the one who was attacked."

"By Ciara?" said Dyprio, not bothering to disguise his incredulity.

"According to him," she replied sardonically, "she was probably acting under undue influence, from Obi-Wan."

Dyprio moved toward the door and stared through its transparent panel, watching the flow of traffic in the corridor. His voice, when he spoke, was filled with disbelief and sorrow. "Mira, how can he believe that? He's known Obi-Wan since the kid was in diapers. I've only known him since I took Ciara as my padawan, but I know, as surely as I know my name, that young Kenobi is no more capable of doing something like this than Master Yoda is of getting drunk and seducing a Hutt."

"Eeyooo!" she laughed. "What an image!"

He smiled. "But you know what I mean."

She nodded, sobering instantly. "Better than anybody. And I will not just stand by and watch that arrogant lout destroy that child."

"Mira," he said softly, regretfully, "he already did. I'm sorry, but the kid is gone, and we don't even know where."

Mirilent was silent for a moment, as if she were mulling over a decision. Then, very abruptly she stood and motioned for him to follow her. She led him through the busier areas of the wing, until they reached a quiet corridor.

The small room that she finally entered was dim and still, and, at first, appeared unoccupied. Until he noticed the faint sound of breathing and, as his eyes adapted to the artificial twilight, a soft suggestion of a nimbus of pale light centered around a tiny figure curled up on the narrow bed.

Mira's voice was soft and steady as she approached the child. "I had a communication from Master ru Caeri on Mejanis. He had a 'suspicion' that I might not be given the full facts regarding this particular patient."

Dyprio peered through the dimness and made out the features of the diminutive girl hunched beneath a swath of blankets. "This is the one they've identified as the 'perfect' clone, isn't it?"

Mirilent nodded. "But she's a great deal more than that. Her genetic structure is absolutely perfect, indistinguishable from the original."

"Pretty kid," he remarked, but he was beginning to fidget, and to wonder if Mirilent hadn't allowed herself to be sidetracked from the central purpose of their discussion.

He should have known better as she huffed her irritation at him, partially through the sound of it - and partially through her Force presence.

Very gently, she pulled back the blanket draped over the girl's prone body, and bared one tiny shoulder. "Look at the mark," she directed.

He saw the tiny scarlet chevron, as perfectly proportioned as if it had been drawn and measured. "Very impressive," he whispered, beginning to get more impatient with each passing moment.

Mirilent rolled her eyes. "It's a K'hiria Melasian mating mark," she almost spat at him.

"So?"

Her sigh was now definitely more a symptom of exasperation than weariness. "It never ceases to amaze me how solidly dense Jedi Masters can be. Do you really think I'd haul you in here just to comment on the child's birthmark?"

"Then I don't . . ." He paused . . . and looked at the mark again. And remembered where he had seen it before.

"Holy shit!" he breathed.

"Yes."

His eyes flared with realization. "She could find him."

"Yes. I think she could, if it were necessary."

"What does this have to do with what happened?"

"Maybe nothing," she replied, "but maybe everything. You see, I think Obi was a victim in this attack, just like the girl was. And I think this child is the only reason he didn't suffer the same fate. There's something about this girl . . . I can't explain it. But I feel it. She's very special."

"Why is she still unconscious?" he demanded.

She retucked the child's blankets before leading him out of the room. "For the same reason that Ciara is. Someone wants them that way."

Ramal tucked his hands into the sleeves of his cape, and rocked on his feet, deep in thought. "This is all connected to Kenobi."

"It is," she responded. "And Qui-Gon Jinn. Whether we approve or not, there's a connection between the two that will take more than this brawl to sever."

"You think they're still connected? If I were the kid . . ."

"But you're not," she said softly, "and I may not know squat about many things in this life, but I know Obi. He'll take himself as far from Qui-Gon as he can possibly get, but it won't ever be far enough. Because no matter how far he goes, he carries the son of a Sith in his heart."

Dyprio nodded finally. "What do you want me to do?"

She looked up at him, and he felt an almost overwhelming urge to squirm. "I want you to find out who's responsible for this, and I want you to bring my Obi back where he belongs. I want you to bring him home."

His smile was very gentle. "I don't suppose you have any suggestions of how I can accomplish that. I don't even know where to look for him."

She reached up - and up - and cupped his cheek with careworn fingers. "That," she said softly, "I can probably help you with. Otherwise, don't bother me with details. Just do it."

 

****************** ******************* ***************

 

He was totally lost in it now, deep in the grip of the Force and caught in the rhythm of the confrontation, guided by pulses of intuition so subtle and discreet that they were gone almost before he reacted to them, to be replaced by new nudges of passionless instinct. He made not a single wrong step, hesitated not one milli-second, moved with the certainty and stamina of the Force that drove him, which was, of course, both inexhaustible and incapable of self-doubt.

Everything thrown at him, he had repelled, from vibro-blades to blaster bolts, mini-grenades to metal darts. In between the deflections and diversions, he had managed to send out blasts of Force energy that strongly discouraged his attacker from trying to draw closer. And he had done it all with his eyes firmly closed.

When his hyper-extended senses recognized a small swarm of remote trainers, he almost laughed. It took him exactly six point three seconds to dispatch all of them, sometimes two and three at a time, with quick slashes of his sapphire saber.

The training area was as silent as a tomb as he opened his eyes to grin at his opponent/observer.

He was therefore marginally surprised, and annoyed with himself for it, when he noticed that the large room was no longer empty. A dozen spectators lounged around the periphery of the chamber and, in the well of silence, a shrill whistle sounded startlingly loud. It was followed by a ripple of applause.

Obi-Wan flushed rose-red, as he noted that the men now cheering for him were the same variety as those who had so lately tried to assault him. He was therefore not entirely certain how to react to the blatant approval.

"Smile, Kid," said Solitaire in his mechanical voice. "They may be the dregs of society, but they know skill when they see it, and they appreciate it. Which doesn't mean they won't stick a shiv in your back if you give them a chance. But they'll be damned careful when they do."

"That's reassuring," he replied, mopping his wet hair with a towel.

"You want reassurance?" said the Weapons Master. "Go to a shrink. Now, are you ready for a real work-out?"

The young Jedi grinned. "I though I just had one."

"No, you just showed off your strength, and I'm impressed. What I want to see now is your weakness."

His grin grew wider. "I don't have one."

Solitaire leaned forward. "That's pure crap," he said softly. "Everybody has one."

"I'm a . . ."

"Don't say that," Solitaire interrupted, "because you're not. You might have been close, but you weren't there yet."

"How do you know that?" Obi-Wan asked, genuinely curious.

"I know Jedi."

"How? How do you know Jedi?"

The Weapons master ignored the question.

"OK." said the young man. "Can I ask you something else?"

"You can ask anything," came the response. "Whether or not I answer, that's something else again."

"Fair enough," said Obi. "What species are you, and where do you come from?"

Solitaire, who had been shaking out an electro-coil, paused and looked up at him. The dark mask gave no inkling of what lay within, yet Obi-Wan was fairly certain that the Master had been caught unaware by his question.

"I'm Ambrian," said the mechanical voice, "from Sur Ambre. Why do you ask?"

He shrugged. "I don't recognize the armor, and I've had quite a lot of training in that sort of thing. Why do you wear it?"

"Why do you carry your lightsaber everywhere you go?"

He smiled. "It's a part of me."

"Exactly. And I need the filter mask. Oxygen, at the levels you breathe it, would kill me in a matter of minutes."

Obi-Wan's eyes widened abruptly, and he was hard put to conceal his surprise. The Weapons Master had just provided the young Jedi with knowledge which could be used against him, in battle. Now why would he do that?"

A tiny flex in the Force made the young Jedi lift his head to find its source, but he saw nothing, except the Weapons Master staring at him - waiting.

"Is that a challenge?" he asked suddenly, almost certain he could sense a trace of laughter in Solitaire's posture.

"Take it any way you like," came the response, and, oh, yes, there was definitely a challenge inherent in those words. "But not tonight. Tonight, I am waiting for you to tell me of your weakness."

He opened his mouth to repeat his earlier claim, but was interrupted. "Don't say it again. There is something. Some weapon, some skill, some phobia - something. Tell me what it is."

But Obi-Wan had begun to get some sense of what the Weapons Master was trying to do, and he smiled. "If I have a weakness, and remember that I said 'If', you're going to have to find it on your own. I'm not going to help you."

And now there were definitely snickers and chuckles all around him. "I don't think he's going to bite, Soli," said Zark Quebel, warmth and approval glowing in his hazel eyes. 

The Weapons Master took a deep breath, obvious even through the breathing mask. "Can you use a blaster, Kenobi?"

He nodded. "It's not my weapon of choice, but sure, I can generally hit what I aim at."

The Ambrian went to a locked console, opened it, and retrieved a coiled leather belt with holster, and a powerful laser-guided blaster, and tossed them to the young Jedi. "Then wear it," said Solitaire. "There's no way of knowing when and if we might get caught in a fire fight. You're no help to us if you have to go find a weapon."

"But I have . . ."

"What you have," Solitaire said, very coldly, "is a Jedi weapon. It's purpose is to defend and deflect. But to kill, it means close quarters combat, something we generally try to avoid, especially when the enemy has attack droids that favor tearing sentient bodies limb from limb as a suitable method of execution. Understood?"

Wordlessly, the young Jedi fastened the gunbelt around his slender waist, and took the time to strap the holster to his thigh, adjusting it to hang just at his fingertips.

"You've worn something like this before," remarked Solitaire.

"I was Jedi," he said absently. "There aren't many weapons I haven't worn, at one time or another."

"Tomorrow," said the Master, "we'll work on drawing it fast and shooting it straight."

Obi-Wan sighed, picked up three damaged remotes from the floor, and tossed them to Fer'mia's second in command. "Mr. Quebal," he said softly, "would you mind? At your discretion."

Quebal eyed the Weapons Master, who nodded slightly. Then he grinned, and walked to the very end of the rather large chamber, making sure that a number of individuals came between him and the young Jedi. When he was standing practically in the doorway, he waited until a couple of towering young sensor techs moved in front of him. Then - lightening quick - he threw the remotes as high and as far as he could.

All three exploded in a shower of light before they had travelled more than four meters from his hand.

Obi-Wan holstered the blaster and turned to face the Weapons Master.

Solitaire simply looked at him, ignoring the approving glances and appreciative comments coming from the spectators.

"Why are you here?" said the Weapons Master finally. "Jedi don't just quit and walk away. So what happened? Did they throw you out?"

"Something like that," he answered serenely (he hoped).

"You're too young to have been knighted," the Ambrian continued, "but you had to have been fairly close. Only senior padawans get the kind of weapons training that you've obviously had. So whatever you did to get the boot must have been really bad."

Obi-Wan calmly retrieved his towel and resumed drying his hair. It was sheer coincidence that the process also managed to conceal his face.

"Not up to talking about it, Little Padawan? Did you do something you're ashamed of?"

"No," he retorted, not quite so tranquil now; feeling the first touch of the spur of annoyance.

"Aha! Then, if you did nothing wrong, you were a victim of someone else's wrongdoing. Right?"

He allowed himself one - and only one - deep sigh. "Just drop it. OK? It's in the past, so what does it matter?"

The Weapons Master stalked forward until he was so close to the young Jedi that Obi-Wan almost imagined he could see the glint of dark eyes inside that obsidian mask. He was also surprised to realize that Solitaire, despite projecting an image that suggested an imposing stature, was actually several inches shorter than his own six-foot frame. 

"It matters, Friend, because it's eating you alive. So much for that legendary Jedi calm. Inside, it's tearing you to pieces."

Obi-Wan concentrated only on regulating his breathing. "You're imagining things."

"They say"- the voice was now, just slightly, conspiratorial - "that the relationship between a Jedi Master and his padawan is very intimate. Is that true?"

Obi-Wan said nothing, determined to ignore the despicable queasiness within him as he thought of his Master, for the first time in days.

"They even say," continued the Weapons Master, very softly, "that the padawan sometimes becomes very precious to his Master. I'll bet a pretty little thing like you could inspire a Master to reach new heights of 'devotion'. Couldn't you?"

A wave of chuckles, the loudest coming from the odd little character that Obi-Wan had heard addressed as 'Batzo', swept through the spectators as Obi-Wan deliberately turned his back and started to walk away. The gloved hand that reached out and restrained him was not really strong enough to hold him, had he chosen to resist it. But something within him simply froze and refused to obey his command to move. The strange, mechanical voice was no more than a whisper in his ear. "So tell me, Little Padawan, did the Jedi find you unworthy of knighthood and toss you out of the Temple, or did your Master find your hot little body unsatisfactory and toss you out of his bed?"

The tiny voice in his mind started as no more than a broken breath and grew steadily louder. _A Jedi knows no anger, but you are no longer Jedi._

"Back off," he said, barely audible.

"Or?"

He actually managed a laugh. "You don't want to know."

Again the dark helmeted head drew so close it was almost touching his ear. "Come on, Padawan. You can tell me. Did your precious Master Jinn find himself a new whore?"

The reaction was so swift and so extreme that no one actually saw it happen. All anyone saw was, at one moment, the Weapons Master leaning forward whispering in the Jedi's ear and, the next, the tip of the sapphire laser blade sinking with agonized slowness into a growing cavity in the breast plate of Solitaire's armor as an almost visible wave of energy held the Ambrian rigid against the wall.

"Kenobi," called a firm voice from the open doorway. "Let him go." Arain Fer'mia had hoped to avoid stepping in, but he really couldn't allow the boy to skewer his Weapons Master, and how the hell had the little bugger managed to get the best of the Ambrian anyway?

Solitaire simply continued to look at the Jedi, expression, as always, completely concealed; nevertheless, Obi-Wan felt rather than saw a sardonic smile. Very slowly, he withdrew the blade, but paused with it still within easy striking distance. Now it was his turn to whisper. "You will never - _never_ \- utter that name again. Understood?"

"Understood, Little One." And Obi-Wan was somewhat astonished to realize there was no fear in the voice. "But now we know, don't we?"

"Know what?"

Solitaire carefully stepped away from the still-glowing lightsaber, and adjusted his chestplate. "Your weakness. Your anger is your weakness, young Kenobi."

Unexpectedly, Obi-Wan smiled. "Under all that armor, you wouldn't be green, long-eared, and really short, would you?"

The Ambrian appeared slightly startled, but volunteered no response.

"How did you know?" asked Obi-Wan, barely loud enough for the Weapons Master to hear. "How did you know his name?"

For a moment, it seemed there would be no answer; then the glossy mask turned toward the young Jedi, and there was a very faint hiss of breath. "You are not so anonymous as you would believe, Padawan. Even among the Jedi, some individuals are singled out for celebrity. Your face - and that of your Master - are not unknown to me."

Impulsively - he would never fully understand the urge - Obi-wan stretched out with the Force and sent a tendril of questing energy toward the Ambrian. When it was repelled, almost violently, the young Jedi staggered slightly and regarded the Weapons Master with wide, speculative eyes, incredibly blue in this light, and much too perceptive, in any light.

Solitaire nodded quickly to Captain Fer'mia, now standing patiently waiting to speak to the young Jedi, and then, to Obi-Wan. As he walked away, passing within a meter of the padawan, he spoke very softly. "A probe that is neither invited nor expected is extremely rude, Little One. Don't do that again."

Obi-Wan made no effort to reply. He was still savoring the sensation he had gleaned from the aborted energy pulse.

He didn't know yet who or what Solitaire was, but he was fairly certain of what he was not. The natives of Sur Ambre were reptilian, predominantly cold-blooded, and blessed with a complex blood circulation system that featured a series of six pumping organs that served the same function as the human heart, but with greater redundancy. The Weapons Master's body temperature was at least as warm as Obi-Wan's, and the beat of his heart was a solid rhythm that perfectly echoed the cadence of a four-chambered organ.

Solitaire could be a member of any of dozens of species, but he was most definitely not Ambrian.

 

******************** ************** *******************

 

It was late evening now, and the glare of the day was fading into the shadowed dusk that marked Coruscant's transition to darkness. The web of traffic glossed the approach of night with its harsh glitter, and Qui-Gon Jinn was drawn to the window to lose himself in the complexity of the pulse of life that sought to repel the darkness. It was, in the end, all an illusion; the Jedi were among the few that understood the futility of the effort. There was, ultimately, no means with which to destroy the darkness for neither light nor dark could exist independently of each other.

_We carry our darkness within us and have only the strength - or good fortune - to illuminate our own path._

The words were from a very old, very primitive ritual - a padawan mantra of seeking; a means of asking for guidance.

He remembered . . . No. He would not go into those memories. He must learn to cast these thoughts aside, to discard them, as he had discarded the tangible items that sought to give life to even more memories.

He would not. 

He sank into a scuffed old chair that sat before the window and sought to clear his mind. He was determined not to think about the things his mind insisted on thrusting at him.

Earlier today, he had strode through the healers' wing in search of Healer Soljan and had happened to pass by the open doorway to the room now occupied by Ciara Barosse. A healers' apprentice had been straightening the girl's bedding as he paused there, and he had been transfixed with a scrap of memory so intense it almost took his breath away. 

_She had been much younger then, of course, and fresh out of a bacta tank, as she had been injured in an explosion at a paristeel manufacturing plant. But she had, even then, at the age of thirteen or so, been extraordinarily pretty, and the rosy flush that was the residue of her injury had been extremely becoming. When Qui-Gon Jinn had entered the room in search of his missing padawan, he had found the boy supporting her with aching tenderness, arms and hands bracing her while staying absolutely still, eyes firmly closed as she struggled to change into a fresh nightshirt._

_The Master had paused and watched them and felt his heart swell in his throat to be privileged to witness such perfect devotion and such pure innocence. He had withdrawn from the room without a word, although he knew beyond all doubt that his apprentice had sensed his presence._

_Later, in the privacy of their quarters, as the padawan had sprawled on the floor at his feet, intent on a quantum mechanics text, the Master had given in to an incredible urge to reach out and embrace the boy, in the sure knowledge that he would soon be a boy no longer. The apprentice had squirmed somewhat, having reached that age when boys are mortified by any physical display of affection from a parent, but he had quieted at once when his Master had caught his small face between two huge hands and simply gazed for a moment into tender eyes that incorporated all the colors of the sea._

_No words had been exchanged, and none had been needed. The boy had spent the rest of the evening with his back resting against his Master's knees._

_He had been fourteen, and it had probably been the last time either of them had been comfortable with such a physically affectionate closeness._

So much promise, promise as bright as the last ray of a sunset over a darkling ocean. As bright as stars glittering above a snowscape. As bright as the spark of love in laughing eyes. 

So much promise. So much loss. So much betrayal.

And the Master still couldn't bring himself to think that name, much less speak it.

"M-master?" The voice was hesitant and very weak.

"I'm here, Xani." The towering Jedi moved immediately to the boy's side. "How do you feel?"

"Very strange," replied Xani, once more taking great care to be sure his shielding was seamless.

"Do you remember what happened?"

The boy appeared to concentrate for a moment, before he said, "There was someone here. A girl, I think. She . . . she asked me something, but . . . "

He winced and covered his eyes with his hands. "Head hurts," he muttered.

Qui-Gon immediately reached out and enclosed the boy in his arms, settling him against his broad chest. "It's all right, now. Don't even try to think about it. I'm here, and I'm not going to let anyone else hurt you."

"Don't want to stay here, Master. Please. Take me home, with you."

Qui-Gon couldn't quite suppress a soft gasp, as the impact of the boy's words struck him. Home. The boy would be going to a new home, a home that now had no occupant; that was now only a former home, waiting to welcome its new tenant. And when that was done, surely every possible trace of the previous resident would be well and truly gone.

Qui-Gon rose, and laid a gentle hand on the boy's head. "Stay here, and be at ease. All is well. I'll be right back."

The Master closed the door softly behind him, leaving the boy in deep dusk.

Xani allowed a full minute to pass before he sat up, and focused on the brightness beyond the window. He had very little time, and he knew he would have no opportunity later. He must get through now, must make her understand. If she made no effort to assist him in what he needed, he doubted his ability to deliver what she wanted.

She must help him, or their mission would be doomed almost before it began. The Jedi would continue, as they had for millenia, to thrive, to perpetuate their ridiculous philosophy.

It was time to bring it down, to bring the mighty Jedi to their knees. And he acknowledged with a tight smile, to bring the noble Master Jinn to his moment of truth, and the delicious Obi-Wan Kenobi to his proper place, at the feet of the heir of Xanatos of Telos.

He propelled himself deep into concentration and reached out through the Dark Force, the writhing power that embraced him so eagerly.

By the time Qui-Gon Jinn returned from his errand, the boy had concluded his activity and lay back against his pillows, his weariness now quite genuine.

"Where did you go?" he asked, allowing a small pout to purse his lips.

"To make arrangements," replied the Master with a gentle smile. "Are you ready to leave this place?"

Xani feigned hesitance. "Am I going with you?"

Qui-Gon lifted the child, blankets and all, and arranged him against his shoulder. "Yes, Xani. You're coming with me. I'm taking you home."

The boy sighed, allowing himself just the barest trace of triumph, which the Master, of course, interpreted as something quite different.

For as long as he could remember, Xani had been aware of a yawning emptiness within him, a place, he believed, that would have been filled with belonging if he had had the advantages provided by a family, biological or surrogate, like the Jedi. Now, for the first time, something dwelled within that void, a fledgling sense of identity, a faint warmth, like the first touch of a gentle hand. And what had once been only a pale hunger was flaring into vivid, powerful need.

He had once tried to explain to Yoni how it felt, but she had never understood. No one had ever understood, and, probably, no one ever would. It was like standing in the midst of a great desert, alone at the peak of a great dune, and looking out across a world of sand and desolation to see, at great distances, hordes of beings that yearned to have what he had, but were so filled with fear of his power that they would never approach. He had long ago accepted the fact that he would never be able to reach them and reassure them that he would welcome their approach, as a godling welcomes the worship of his flock.

And he had always known that they would not come in worship, but in anger, not to offer themselves in service, but to banish him from his high places.

That he could not allow. 

Despite the murmurs of his conscious mind, something within him knew that it was not subjects he sought, but equals. Or rather - one equal.

He had always believed it would be the great Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn who would provide the presence that might permeate that barren darkness. He had been wrong.

Tonight, thought the son of Xanatos, he would sleep in Obi-Wan's bed, caressed by the blankets that had draped Obi-Wan's body. It was not, by any means, close to being enough; he wanted . . . he wanted . . . There weren't enough words to describe what he wanted. His entire life, he had hungered, and nothing or no one had ever come close to assuaging that hunger. Nothing had ever so much as blunted the pain of it, until the day Qui-Gon Jinn's apprentice had strolled into his life and offered nothing more than a smile. For a moment, the ache of the need had been soothed, but, when the moment had passed, it had resurged, somehow even stronger and more painful than before, leaving him with the knowledge that there was a cure for his pain, a balm for his need, along with the inevitable anger that he should have to endure the lack of that which could end his torment. What he would gain tonight would be no more than a nuance of what was to come. But, for the moment, it would do.

He had the padawan's Master and the padawan's place in life. It was only natural to assume that, by divine right, he would eventually have the padawan, himself.

 

************************* ************ **********************

 

Arain Fer'mia made a point of avoiding strong drink and hallucinogenic drugs, as a matter of habit. His lifestyle demanded that he maintain a cool head and clear judgment at all times. It had kept him alive, and, more importantly perhaps, it had kept him unconfined, and free to do that which he could do to stand against the systematic destruction of his home world.

Nevertheless, in the cozy warmth of his quarters, seated on his bunk, with Zark Quebel at his elbow, and Obi-Wan Kenobi sprawled with completely unconscious elegance in the only chair in the room, Fer'mia poured out four generous portions of a very fine, very old, very expensive Alderaanian brandy. As he handed round the small snifters, Palani came through the open hatch and closed it behind her.

Obi-Wan immediately stood and offered her the chair as he hitched himself up on Fer'mia's desk. Palani, for a moment, seemed disconcerted - which she was - as the captain busied himself with recorking the bottle, in order to conceal a tiny smile. It was unlikely in the extreme that anyone - male or female - had ever before risen to offer her a chair. And what was really astonishing was that, after her initial shock, she accepted the offer, favoring the young man with a brief nod of acknowledgement.

The Captain raised his glass, and smiled broadly at the newest addition to his crew. "Here's to your success, young Jedi. And let me be the first to say, that if I hadn't seen it myself, I wouldn't believe it."

Obi-Wan sipped appreciatively. He had learned to appreciate fine brandy as part of his Jedi training, of course, but his true appreciation for the rare Alderaanian vintages had been instilled by . . . 

He paused, and deliberately turned his back on that memory. He had spent almost half of his life following that lead, but it was gone now. Now he would find his own paths, choose his own destinations, forge his own destiny.

Fer'mia, much more perceptive than his demeanor would lead one to believe, correctly interpreted the flash of pain in the boy's eyes and continued without an appreciable pause. "Tell me, how did you do it? I've never seen anybody get the better of Solitaire."

Palani smiled, as a soft flush suffused the young Jedi's features. "Not one of my proudest moments," he admitted. "I allowed my anger to control me, and, in battlefield conditions, it probably would have cost me my life, and the lives of those I should be defending."

Fer'mia looked at the boy through narrowed eyes. "You're not Jedi any more, Obi-Wan," he said abruptly. "You're no longer expected to protect everyone else. Protecting yourself is to be your first priority."

The young Jedi returned the Captain's gaze steadily. "I assume you mean that I'm valuable to your war effort, and I understand that. But I have to be honest with you, Captain. All I can be is what I am. I can't throw away a lifetime of training, and become someone else. I can't, and if that's what you require, then maybe you better toss me out that airlock."

Palani Vau-Bremayne chuckled softly and fixed the captain with an I-told-you-so look that spoke volumes. "You can take the boy out of the Jedi," she chanted.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," said the Captain. "Whatever." But his eyes never left Kenobi's face. "But that doesn't change the fact that I need you alive, and that you can do more than prolong a few lives on a battlefield, if you make sure to stay that way."

"Why don't you tell me what you have in mind?" said Obi-Wan finally, knowing that he probably wasn't going to like what Fer'mia had to say.

But then, he shouldn't be surprised. He was here to do something he wasn't going to like doing. He was here to fight a war.

"There's only one way to end this conflict," said Zark Quebel. "We have to make it unprofitable, and we have to do it before it's too late to salvage anything of Drimula."

"And how do you do that?"

Something dark and dreadful moved in Palani's eyes. "Not well enough," she replied. 

"We've been fighting a guerilla war, Obi-Wan," said the Captain, "for what seems like forever. We've done everything we can to interfere with their mining operations and to encourage the population to resist, to fight back. But the resistance is running out of able bodies, as more and more are conscripted into the mines, and more and more die there. As you learned from the evidence we provided for you, six months in the mines is a death sentence, even for the able-bodied. For the weak - and the very young - it's considerably shorter."

"How young?" asked the boy, a hollow note in his voice.

Palani drained her snifter of brandy in one toss. "The youngest we know of were six, but there may be some that are younger. They use them to creep into the narrowest rock crevices, to plant explosives at stress points to provide clear passage for the digging machines."

"Six?" echoed the Jedi, horror rising in his eyes.

Fer'mia rose and moved to stand before the view port, his gaze fixed on something visible only to him. "We're running out of time and resources. We need a new strategy."

Obi-Wan read steely determination, tempered by bone-deep weariness, in the lines of the Captain's posture. "And that's where I come in," said the Jedi, knowing, somehow, that he was right.

Fer'mia turned to stare at him, and there was a cold stillness within him that trailed a frisson of dread down Obi-Wan's back.

"Tell me, Jedi," said the Captain, his voice almost expressionless, "could you kill a million, to save ten times, a hundred times that many?"

Obi-Wan felt his breath catch in his throat. "That question has been the subject of more debates - in more philosophies - than almost any other."

"And _that_ ," said Fer'mia, still very calm, "constitutes an evasion. Not an answer."

"Which do you prefer, Captain? An explanation of the process, or a lie? I gave you no answer, because I don't have one."

The captain was quiet for a moment before turning to his desk, and activating a tiny holo-projector. An image formed in the middle of the room. It was a small image, appropriate to the small room, but it was no less lovely for its size.

A slightly oblate globe of azure and heliotrope, frosted with drifts of pure white, the planet Drimula spun serenely in orbit around its distinctive blue star.

"Doesn't look any different than a thousand other worlds, does it? Sometimes I'm amazed at how much torment a world can endure, and still turn a peaceful face to the indifferent light of its sun." That was Zark Quebel, his extremely cultured, deep core accent somehow serving to thread his tone with foreboding.

Fer'mia waved his hand, and the hologram shifted and reformed. The scene now was a stretch of pristine mountains, dotted with lovely small villages and lakes of vivid blue - a bucolic paradise.

Another wave, and the same area, from the same vantage point, except that now there was no life, no blue water, and no beauty. Only the shapes of the peaks were left to indicate it was the same place. Everything else was laid waste, obviously fallen victim to the boiling wave of some thick, noxious heavy gas that obscured and apparently devoured everything in its path.

"That's the by-product of the mining process," said Palani. "The chemical name is tertiopachrymal - dioxylinium; the people just call it bio-acid. It consumes everything it touches, all living tissue, and leaves nothing more than a slimy smear in its wake."

"How can they mine if the process produces this?"

"Because the by-product isn't released instantly. It's the result of the interaction of the random energy released from the ore in its raw state, the chemicals used to separate the ore from its crystalline matrix, and a carbon residue that forms as the ore shifts. It takes a few weeks to develop fully. It's quite complex, actually; so complex that no one has yet figured out exactly how it forms. We only know that it does, and it's deadly."

"Does it degrade?" asked the Jedi.

"Everything degrades," said Palani, "sooner or later. But, in this case, later is much too late. Climate has some effect on it, but the best case scenario, insofar as we know, is roughly sixty days. That's a long time to hold your breath. And, of course, even when it's gone, what it leaves behind is hardly capable of supporting life. It even destroys the microbes in the soil."

Obi-Wan stood and approached the holo-image, his eyes rain-gray now as he studied the dreadful progression of the roiling miasma.

Finally, he looked at the Captain, and asked the question that Fer'mia had been expecting since the first time he had approached the Padawan and asked for his help.

"I don't get it," Obi-Wan said, a slight tone of challenge in his tone. "How can the population of an entire world just let this happen?"

Fer'mia smiled, but there was only a glacial chill in his eyes. "A very wise being, much wiser than any of us, I expect, once remarked that all it takes for evil to flourish is for good men to do nothing. Drimula is proof of that."

"Meaning?" Obi-Wan moved to sit on the Captain's bunk and leaned back against the wall, his brandy snifter balanced against his chest.

"Drimula was an insular world, young Kenobi. We had starflight capability, of course, but we weren't terribly interested in exploration or expanding our cultural horizons. We were much too busy promoting our own differences, to worry about anyone else's. Do you know what our last great war, the one before this never-ending abomination, was fought over? The name of god. That's not an exaggeration. There were three different factions, all claiming that the name they applied to their own god, was the only acceptable name. The war lasted for seven years, and two and a half million people died in it.

"Drimula was never a unified world, or a single people. We lived with constant wars and threats of wars; with conflict and aggression and rebellion and breast-beating and browbeating. We fought over everything, right down to stupid disagreements like ethnic differences. We were all Drimulan, but some of us were tall and thin with dark hair, and some were short and squat with white hair. Some believed in rule by monarchy; others believed in democracy or theocracy or aristocracy; others believed in nothing at all. But all fought, for whatever they believed. Religion, politics, philosophy, cultural differences, ethnic differences. Then of course there was the ongoing dispute over the ownership of resources and the distribution of wealth. The eternal battle of the haves and the have-nots. Legend has it that a war once began because the daughter of a ruling lord was insulted when a neighboring kingdom refused her gift of candy for the children of the household. Is it true? Probably not. But it demonstrates the mindset of our people.

"And yet, amazingly, our civilization managed to survive, even to develop a certain cultural richness, which, I suppose, speaks well of our tenacity. War was a way of life, but, in a strange way, it was almost ignored within our culture. It was simply a fact of our existence, so commonplace and expected that no one made any real effort to end it. There was little interaction with the rest of the galaxy, of course; some faction or another was always blockading someone, for some reason. Nevertheless, we endured, and, given time, maybe we would even have learned to stop killing each other."

Fer'mia turned once more to the viewport, and stared into the swirling brilliance as if he would lose himself there.

"When the executives of the mining consortium approached the Triumvirate, rulers of the largest of the Drimulan nations, and promised extravagant rewards for their co-operation, no one took much notice. We were still too busy fighting among ourselves. And, by the time the populace was ready to pay attention, it was too late. The consortium, with the complicity of greedy Drimulan collaborators, had set in place a virtual dictatorship, under the auspices of the Triumvirate, controlled and perpetuated by mercenaries motivated only by profits, and those self-same collaborators who now live comfortably off-world. The people of Drimula are finally united, young Kenobi. Just in time to die."

"How long has it been?" asked Obi-Wan.

"Off-World established its first mining operation twelve years ago. The declaration of martial law . . ." Fer'mia paused, as he noted that the young Jedi had gone paper- white as he slowly rose to his feet.

"What did you say?" Obi-Wan said slowly.

"I said they started mining nine years ago."

"No," said Obi-Wan, "you said Off-World started mining."

Fer'mia nodded. "Yes. They were the first, though many others soon followed. I don't see . . "

"Did they send a representative to talk to the people? To convince them to co-operate?"

Palani was studying the Jedi's face with a growing sense of unease. "Yes, they did. I was there in the capitol city when he arrived. Beautiful and charming - and slippery as a Mon Calamari eel, and really good with the crowds. Had them eating out of his hand. It was weeks before anyone figured out that he had just been stalling for time, until the military machine could be put in place."

"His name?"

Palani moved to stand directly in front of the young man. "Now, why am I so sure that you already know his name? So you tell me, Obi. What was his name?"

"Xanatos," he breathed, "of Telos." The dark weariness in his eyes was almost painful to behold.

She merely nodded.

Obi-Wan gestured toward the comm unit. "Can we reach Coruscant with this?"

The Captain stepped forward and smiled. "This little darling could blow the ears out of half the galaxy. Coruscant is a walk in the park."

"I need to reach the Temple," said the Jedi, "right now."

"You planning to tell me why," said Fer'mia, "or am I just to take your word?" At his shoulder, Palani moved to the tiny control unit, and began activating control surfaces.

Obi-Wan, despite the distress still evident in the lines of his face, managed a small smile. "Well, Captain, things may be looking up for Drimula."

"How so?"

"We may have just found sufficient cause to justify intervention by the Jedi."

Fer'mia looked skeptical. "If the evidence we presented to them didn't persuade them, I can't imagine what would. We proved that genocide is being practiced on a planetary scale. Wasn't that enough?"

"Frankly," replied Obi-Wan, "I don't know. I know that several members of the Council promised to make every effort to extend assistance, but the Senate has a huge amount of influence with the Council, and even the Jedi have to play the game of political expediency these days. There are, however, exceptions."

"Such as?"

Obi-Wan drew a deep, shaky breath. "Xanatos of Telos . . . was one of ours. A Jedi gone bad. If he had a hand in orchestrating this tragedy, the Council may well feel an obligation to intervene."

The Captain continued to study the Jedi's face for a few moments before calling over his shoulder. "Palani."

"Yes, Boss."

"Have you got Coruscant on the horn yet?"

Palani smiled, and pushed the appropriate button. "The Jedi Temple, as requested."

Obi-Wan moved to the comm station and leaned over the microphone. "This is Obi-Wan Kenobi. I need to speak with Master Yoda, right now!"

As they waited, Fer'mia stood near the young Jedi, still lost in thought.

"You want to tell me the rest," said Obi-Wan finally. "The part of all this that's so bad you don't know how to say it?"

"You know," replied the Captain, very softly, "you see entirely too much."

"So I've been told. Don't you think the best way is just to spit it out?"

Fer'mia sighed. "We have to stop it, young Kenobi. No matter what the cost. It's almost too late now. And I can only think of one way to do it. Nothing else has worked."

"What way is that?"

The Captain looked up and held the young Jedi's gaze steadily. "To make it unprofitable, permanently, there's only one way. We have to contaminate the entire deposit of tagmonditurium."

"But you said the layer practically covers the entire planet."

"Yes. That's what I said."

"Then that would mean . . ." Obi-Wan drew a deep, sharp breath, as realization dawned.

"Yes," breathed Fer'mia. "That's why I posed the question."

"But it would kill millions." The young Jedi's voice was hollow, almost without inflection.

"And save tens of millions."

Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes tight shut, and rubbed his forehead with trembling fingers. "It won't come to that," he said, almost to himself. "I won't let it come to that."

When Master Yoda finally answered the comm call, the young Jedi had managed to regain control of his breathing and his tone. His voice, to his own ears, sounded stiff and ultra-formal, but it had stopped shaking.

"Thank you for taking my call, my Master. It would seem the Jedi have a problem on Drimula, after all."

 

****************** ***************** ****************

 

Padawan Ciara Barosse sat up abruptly, and threw off the blankets that swathed her, eyes bright and seeking the cause of her confinement in what was obviously the healers' wing.

"Why am I here?" she demanded, and looked up to see her tall, swarthy Master smiling down at her.

"I was hoping _you_ could tell _me_ that," he replied.

She shook her head in an effort to clear her thoughts, but, try as she would, she had no recollection of anything beyond visiting with the child, Oomy, in the company of Padawan Bant. Somehow, she knew that that had not happened within the last few minutes.

"How long have I . . "

"Two days, Little One."

"Am I . . ."

"You're fine," he assured her, running gentle fingers down her padawan braid. "And I think maybe you'll be even better when you hear what I have to say."

"Which is what?" She loved it when her Master was in a whimsical mood, which didn't happen nearly as often as she'd like.

"First things first," he replied. "Are you well enough to get out of here? Healer Soljan says you're fine, but I don't want to take any chances."

"Master," she laughed, "I feel wonderful."

"You're sure?"

She huffed a dramatic sigh. "I swear, it's amazing to watch a Corellian rogue turn into a mother hen whenever his padawan is a little under the weather. For the last time, I am fine. Now, let's go."

His grin was infectious, and she correctly identified both warmth and excitement in his eyes, and never mind that a Jedi wasn't really supposed to embrace either.

"So where are we going?" she demanded, reaching for her clothes.

"Taking a little trip," he assured her. "You'll like it."

"Where?"

"I'll tell you later. We really need to . . "

"Master," she said firmly, "I am not moving muscle one until you tell me where we're going."

He wrapped massive arms around her and dropped a quick kiss on the end of her nose. His voice was little more than a whisper as he said, "You might want to rethink that, Kid. We're going after your little playmate."

Tears welled immediately in her eyes. "We're going after Obi?"

He nodded. "Need time to pack?"

She grabbed her robe from a nearby chair, and grinned. "Pack? What's that? Let's go."

When the tiny ambassadorial shuttle took off just eleven minutes later, Ramal Dyprio thought that it was entirely possible they had just broken the Temple record for quickest departure after accepting a mission.

Ciara sat at the controls, and her Master deliberately did not notice that she was breaking every traffic rule in the book as she rocketed toward deep space.

********************* **************** ****************** 

tbc


	16. The Gate of Eden

Chapter 16: The Gate of Eden

 

_One morn a Peri at the gate  
Of Eden stood disconsolate._

_"Paradise and the Peri"_ \--- Thomas Moore

 

Arain Fer'mia lounged in the captain's chair, and watched the young man seated at the helm console as the nav-computer disengaged, and the disorienting swirl of hyperspace flexed and settled into the glittering vista of the Breghovian Maelstrom. Stars - newborn and ancient, birthing and dying, stable and pulsing, twinned and solitary, and gleaming white and rose red and hot purple and vivid blue and every possible color in between - swung about each other in an ageless dance, performed to a cadence provided by celestial orchestration. The view was nothing short of breath-taking, but the captain had eyes only for a more compact vision, which, Fer'mia realized with a tiny smile, some among his crew would probably consider no less spectacular.

The Jedi was deep in concentration (Palani observed to herself that it was more like communion) answering the needs of the _Lady Ghost_ , completely oblivious to everything else around him. In the days since his arrival, he had begun to adapt to the ambiance of the ship in ways that were reflected in a subtle shift in his appearance. Whether or not the change was indicative of anything more than superficial adjustments, only the Jedi knew, and he was keeping his own counsel about it. 

He had apparently put away the dark garments he had worn in his flight from Coruscant, and adopted instead, as a sort of unofficial uniform, soft, loose fitting shirts of white linen, open at the throat, with long sleeves rolled back at the cuffs, atop lean pants of tan suede, tucked neatly into fawn-colored leather boots. The muted earth tones (undoubtedly chosen for their similarity to the hues he had worn all his life as a Jedi) were enormously flattering with his tawny coloring. At his waist, a multi-pocket belt was threaded through wide belt loops (a rather radical departure from Jedi fashion) and served to hold his lightsaber and an assortment of small tools within easy reach. Riding on his slim hips, the blaster holster afforded him instantaneous (given Jedi reflexes, the word was no exaggeration) access to the laser pistol within it.

His hair, still spiky short, was beginning to shag just a tiny bit, making him look less like a schoolboy and more like a young rogue.

And he had adopted one more 'local' fashion, which Fer'mia was absolutely certain would have been severely discouraged, if not outright forbidden, within the Jedi Temple. A young body that had almost certainly never known the embellishment of jewelry now sported two small ameraldine studs in his left ear lobe. The captain, who was not normally given to noticing such things, had remarked to his first mate that the shifting color of the stones was a perfect match for the moody color of the boy's eyes.

A tiny red light on Fer'mia's console flashed abruptly. "All stop," said the Captain.

"All stop," echoed Obi-Wan, easing thrusters back to station-keeping.

Arain Fer'mia rose and looked around the bridge of his vessel. Roughly wedge-shaped, with all control stations arranged in a loose three-quarter circle, it was compact and efficient, but still sufficiently streamlined to appeal to his sense of aesthetics. Soft lighting and muted colors contributed to an atmosphere of ease and comfort without encouraging somnolence. "You know the drill, People," said the Captain. "All non-essential personnel, clear the bridge."

Obi-Wan turned to regard the Captain, obviously puzzled.

Fer'mia motioned for him to stay where he was and then waited until the lift doors closed on those apparently deemed non-essential for the next phase of the ship's operation.

When all was said and done, only the Captain, his second-in-command/pilot, the first mate, the navigator - a stocky young woman named Arilee - and Obi-Wan remained on the bridge.

Fer'mia then turned to address the young man who was now, officially, the co-pilot of the Lady Ghost. He nodded toward the viewscreen, and said, "What do you see?"

Obi-Wan smiled. "I'm going to assume you don't want a detailed listing. What do you expect me to see?"

"Humor me. In general, what do you see?"

"With my eyes?"

Arain Fer'mia laughed. "For the moment, though I guess it's pretty obvious where this is going."

"I see the Maelstrom. I see indications of energy currents, gravitic anomalies, swirls of debris that would indicate invisible forces at work. I see nuances of what might be dark matter trails, and photonic distortions that could suggest the proximity of an event horizon."

"Damn," breathed Palani. "You can actually see all that?"

He grinned. "More or less."

"So far, so good," remarked Fer'mia. "Now let's see how good you really are. Jedi-style. Tell me what you see."

Obi-Wan sat back in his comfortable chair, and closed his eyes, concentrating, for the moment, on nothing more than relaxing his body and emptying his mind. For a short time, he simply relished the stillness around him, broken only by the comforting beat of his own heart and the gentle susurration of his breath. When he allowed his awareness to expand outward, to encompass the people near at hand, he was able to identify each, not by their physical characteristics, but by their Force signatures, and it warmed him to realize that all were basically decent, honorable individuals, despite the presence of a few rough edges.

He reached further, and encountered more Force signatures, many similar to those close by; others less comforting and reassuring; a few dark enough to be alarming. But identifying and evaluating such beings was not his purpose at this moment.

He reached again, spared a moment for a glancing caress of the lovely ship itself, and then touched the immensity of the space around them. Touched it, savored it, sensed something lovely and bright, but hidden. Sensed it and reached - and saw.

His eyes flew open, and he laughed softly. "How did you ever find it?" he asked.

Fer'mia leaned forward and regarded him with uncertainty. "More important, how did you?"

But Obi-Wan shook his head. "It's a Jedi thing. I can't really explain it. I sense it in the Force."

"You sense it," said Quebel, watching the boy closely, "but can you find it? Can you fly this ship through it?"

Obi-Wan turned to the viewscreen again, and smiled. "Now that I know what to look for, it's brighter than the suns of Tatooine."

Fer'mia nodded. "You're going to get a chance to prove it, shortly."

"How did you find it?" Obi-Wan repeated. "I doubt it shows up on any map."

The Captain grinned. "You're right. It doesn't. And, to be honest, I didn't find it. Solitaire did, completely by accident. He was in a scout ship that got caught in a gravitational eddy, and got reeled in like a fish."

Obi-Wan nodded, and looked forward again. The space before them was aswirl with color and interstellar particles, all being twisted and torn in a dozen directions at once. There was even a small field of miniature asteroids that added to the confusion, and fragments of an old, shredded nebula. All of which made for a beautiful display, while discouraging exploration. Except that it was all a mask, a natural camouflage for what lay beyond it. Beyond an invisible horizon - a blackness that swallowed all light, and would eventually swallow everything within this exceptional area, veiled by interwoven bands of dark energy, lay a miniature solar system, complete with micro-sun and a handful of planetoids, and even a moonlet or two, a virtually perfect haven for anyone wishing to remain unseen.

"That still doesn't explain how you managed to get in."

"When he managed to repair his ship, he spent weeks trying to find his way out. He finally realized that the exit was only detectable at certain times."

"When the singularity spins away from the passage," said Obi-Wan, nodding.

"You can sense that?" asked Palani, obviously still not entirely convinced. "You can sense that it's rotating?"

The Jedi smiled. "Give me a few minutes and I can probably gauge its RPM's for you."

"Anyway," continued the Captain, "when he made his way out, he deployed a system of marker buoys, to guide us back in. They're not infallible, of course, as we can only lock onto them when the tidal forces are weak enough to allow the signals to escape the corridor." Fer'mia lowered himself back into his chair and regarded young Kenobi with a smile. "So, can you also see our problem?"

"I assume this is your hidden base," replied the Jedi, "and it's perfect for the purpose of being virtually undetectable, but not so great that you can only enter or exit at certain times. And, unless I miss my guess, you can only navigate it by recalibrating your instruments for each passage, since everything in this area is in a state of flux, all of which takes time - and leaves you a big, fat, tempting target while you're waiting. Plus, if you're painting the area with sensors to aid recalibration, there's a chance any pursuer might pick up on what you're doing."

Palani Vau-Bremayne grinned. "You got any big brothers at home, Little One? Cause if you were two feet taller and a hundred pounds heavier, I think I'd be falling in love."

Obi-Wan chuckled. "No, but my Mast . . . ." He almost choked when he realized what he'd almost said.

Fer'mia spoke quickly, covering the awkward silence. "It's obvious that you understand the problem. The important question now is, do you have a solution?"

The young Jedi placed his hands on the console before him, effectively putting an end to the tremor that had shaken him so completely. "I'll need a little time," he said softly. "I need to get a complete image in my mind, and to review your sensor logs of the area. But ultimately? Yes, Captain. I believe I can give you a solution. The only thing is . . . " He turned to stare directly into Fer'mia's eyes, "you're going to have to trust me, completely. Enough to do exactly as I say, when I say. No questions asked. If you can't do that, then it's all moot."

The Captain exchanged glances with his crewmates, and all of them realized that what the young Jedi was asking was tremendously difficult for their commander. Leaders, by their very nature, did not voluntarily relinquish control of their ships, unless the alternative was worse than the prospect of losing control.

At last, Fer'mia turned back and looked down into that fair young face. He realized suddenly that his misgivings had nothing to do with trusting Kenobi; somewhere in the middle of their journey, between the night he had first spoken to this remarkable individual, and this moment, he had come to understand the purity and honesty of the young man's heart and soul. No, he no longer mistrusted Kenobi (and that was quite an achievement for a man who had spent most of his adult life in a struggle against the forces of evil, in a situation in which he couldn't afford to trust anyone.) What he mistrusted was Fate, and those most cruel twists it sometimes reserved for those who deserved it least.

"Start your studies," he said softly, and turned away. 

"Captain Fer'mia," called Obi-Wan.

"Yes."

The young Jedi appeared reluctant to continue. "Are you aware that it's closing?"

"It's what?" barked Palani. "What are you talking about?"

"The passage," said Obi-Wan, "for lack of a better term. It's closing. Very, very slowly. Probably too slowly to register on your instruments."

Fer'mia sighed. "How long?"

"Maybe a couple of years before it's closed completely, but it'll be impossible to navigate before that."

Fer'mia turned to look out the viewscreen. "Without a haven to run to, we're dead."

Obi-Wan smiled. "Then we'll just have to make sure that your job is done by that time, or that we find a new haven."

The Captain remained grim-faced. "The mercenary fleet knows we're out here somewhere; they even know the general vicinity. And since we're forced, because of the hazards within the passage, to tiptoe through, there are even more risks of our being spotted. I confess that, just once, I'd like to see my _Lady_ make the transition like she does everything else - like poetry in motion. But I'd settle for some means to keep the patrols off our backs. So far, they just haven't been lucky enough to catch us at the right moment. But that kind of luck won't last forever. That's why we need your Jedi skills. But not even you and your mind tricks could save us if we have no safe place to run."

Obi-Wan looked down at the datascreen incorporated into his console, and watched data flash across its surface, a compressed stream of information gleaned from sensor logs, navigational logs, and virtual visual images, created from the ship's computer records.

"Still, first things first. It's about eleven hours until the passage opens sufficiently for us to navigate safely," said the Captain. "Think you can do better?"

Before the young Jedi had a chance to respond, an amber light began to strobe on the sensor control console, and Palani moved to scan the incoming data.

"I think he's going to have to," she said abruptly, turning to exchange glances with the Captain. "There's a Bathara class cruiser out there, and I think we just lit up their sensors like a super-nova."

Fer'mia regarded the young Jedi with raised brows. "It's your call," he announced softly. "If you don't think you're ready, we can cut and run."

Obi-Wan caught his lower lip between his teeth, a certain indication (but only among his Temple companions who knew him well enough to recognize the gesture) that he was sorting through multiple options, to select the best course of action available to him.

"Can we outrun them?" he asked.

"That's problematic," replied Palani. "But if we're going to try, it has to be right now."

Fer'mia nodded. "Decide, Kenobi. Now."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, reached for the Force, and felt it wrap around him like a soft, enveloping blanket.

"Inform the crew," he said softly, hands moving to caress control surfaces, "to brace themselves. Increase inertial dampeners to full power; divert all auxiliary power to deflectors, and feed all guidance controls through this console."

"But you'll need . . ." Palani froze as blue-green eyes impaled her.

"I said 'All'," Obi Wan repeated. "I won't have time to relay instructions."

"Do it!" snapped Fer'mia.

The first mate allowed herself a huge sigh, as her eyes met those of Zark Quebal.

"Have faith, Palani," he whispered with a small smile.

The first mate stole a quick glance at the young Jedi and was not at all reassured by the fact that his hands seemed to be operating independently of his eyes, which were closed.

"Weapons, too," said Obi-Wan. "All of them."

"Rain," said Palani, "he can't possibly . . ."

Fer'mia spared a quick smile. "No, Palani. _We_ can't possibly. I think he's about to show you that there isn't much that he can't possibly do."

The great winged goddess that was the _Lady Ghost_ seemed to poise for a moment, gathering herself, focusing, reaching forward to embrace her destiny. When she actually leapt, the space where she had been only milli-seconds before was suddenly threaded with multiple streaks of deadly scarlet energy, racing now toward infinity. The hulking cruiser that had fired on them swept through the same space moments later, completely committed, for the moment, to a course that would take it well beyond the range of the fleeing corvette. From the perspective of the cruiser's crew, the sleek ebony silhouette of the _Lady_ had simply vanished.

The corvette's bridge crew, to a man, was flung to the deck, none of them having taken the Jedi at his word when he had advised them to brace themselves. Only Obi-Wan, with a sense of balance akin to that of the most graceful of felines, remained seated, and hardly seemed to notice the continued gyrations and shudders of the ship. But then, since he was the one causing all of it, perhaps he simply knew enough to brace against it without undue strain.

The lovely vessel was a sensual sylph as she flashed through the turbulence of the maelstrom, corkscrewing through great drifts of unseen energy, sheering through sheets of particulate veiling. Almost as an aside, a pair of ion cannon bolts erupted from her starboard battery and pulverized a stubborn boulder that seemed intent on blocking her path, while, at the same moment, she ducked and rolled to avoid the boulder's much bigger brother.

Obi-Wan kept his eyes closed tight, reaching out, feeling his way through what could only be described as chaos. He could feel the huge gravity well reaching for him, reaching not only for the graceful ship, but for his own consciousness, almost as if there were a living presence within that great power.

"Oh, no, you don't," he said softly, almost smiling, using the massive force of the singularity as a solid surface against which he could rebound the energy of the careening ship and propel it forward, threading the eye of the needle that was the corridor to safety.

Around the _Lady'_ s dark silhouette, fire bloomed and blossomed and particles of debris impacted against the glowing deflector screens, annihilating themselves in sweeping arcs of brilliance. In the final moment of the passage, one stubborn monolithic boulder, half the size of the streaking corvette, that seemed fated to cleave the ship in half, simply dropped out of sight, diverting from its prior trajectory as if deflected by a huge, unseen hand, which was not, in actuality, all that far from the truth.

The entire transition consumed approximately eight minutes; Arain Fer'mia thought it felt more like a lifetime.

When the ship slowly settled, and the wild vibrations and violent shifts ended, and when the wild cartwheeling beyond the paristeel ports slowed to reveal only a tranquil starscape framing a tiny, jewel-toned solar system, there was a pregnant silence, as the entire bridge crew turned to stare at the young man still seated at the helm console.

Obi-Wan looked up at Captain Fer'mia and didn't bother to try to suppress his grin. "Poetic enough for you?" he asked.

Palani Vau-Bremayne sank to her knees in the middle of the deck, which seemed the better part of discretion as the only other option was to fall flat on her face. "I don't fucking believe it," she breathed. "I saw it, and I still don't believe it."

Abruptly, Arain Fer'mia leapt forward and lifted the young Jedi out of his seat in a monster hug, which, within moments, was joined by everyone else on the bridge. "Welcome to Haven, my friend," said the Captain, laughing with sheer exuberance. "Your new home."

Obi-Wan turned to watch the small, azure-swirled planetoid that lay dead ahead, its globe brilliant against deep drifts of heliotrope and burgundy.

"I came here to fight a war, Captain. Not to find a home."

Fer'mia nodded. "I know, but is there any reason you can't do both?"

Home. Obi-Wan found that the word seemed uncomfortable to him now - although it never had before. Home.

He knew that the only home he had ever known was his no more, but he couldn't imagine accepting any other - ever.

He would dwell among these good people for a while; he would help them in any way he could, and, maybe, with a little good fortune, they would be able to save their home, but it would never be his.

Just as these people would never be his people, even should they be willing, as they certainly appeared to be, to welcome him to their ranks.

But he did not belong here. And something inside him would never allow him to fool himself into believing that he did.

For this time, maybe for all times, Obi-Wan Kenobi had no home, no people, no place to call his own.

 

*************** ******************** ***************

The luxury yacht _Witch's Moon_ threaded the distortion of hyperspace in complete silence. It's owner had paid more than enough for the Corellian vessel to insure that she never had to listen to anything more atonal than some of the more progressive offerings of Coruscant's symphony orchestra.

N'vell Aji lounged in her private quarters, the deep sapphire synthsilk of her dressing gown contrasting sharply to the champagne-colored hangings of her boudoir. Except for its somewhat limited size - one did, after all, have to make certain concessions to the practical necessities of space travel - the room was very much like those in her homes on a dozen different worlds. No expense had been spared, and no sensual indulgence resisted. Perfumed air circulated constantly through the chamber, and the extravagant sybaritic bath and the huge dressing room just visible through an arched doorway.

The last surviving member of the Telosian royal house of Aji was indulging herself in a moment of fantasy, as she listened to water splashing into the splendor of her private bathing pool. The scent in the air now was reminiscent of the Kalibara roses of her native Telos, bruised by fresh rain, as a very slight tremor announced the ship's transition to sublight, and then to complete silence as it began to drift in space, awaiting an approaching visitor. 

N'Vell actually owned three private yachts. The other two boasted assets much different from this one, including larger quarters, faster maximum cruising speed, and more advanced weapons capabilities. But what they did not have was the one thing that she required for successful completion of this mission.

They did not have the sensual luxury of this suite and the adjoining bath, the visual lushness in which she would seduce one perfect young Jedi Padawan and make him beg for her favors, make him beg so prettily and so breathlessly, and so perfectly for the cameras concealed around the chamber.

N'Vell felt an actual visceral stirring in her loins as she visualized that beautiful boy in these surroundings, visualized that strong, lean, muscled, perfect young body, arching in pleasure; visualized those lovely, soft lips speaking her name and covering her mouth; and visualized, above all, the look on the face of Master Qui-Gon Jinn, first when he recognized and understood how far his precious padawan had fallen, and then - oh, most delicious of all, when he realized that nothing he could do would save the apprentice from a slow, lingering, exquisitely painful death.

The sister of Xanatos had even gone so far as to consider sparing the Master's life entirely and allowing him to live with the consequences of his own blunders.

But she was not quite capable of giving up her vision of that one ultimate moment of revenge, the occasion of plunging the boy's lightsaber deep into the heart of the one who had betrayed not one, but two padawans.

N'Vell smiled and almost purred.

A discreet chime at the suite's entrance interrupted her reverie.

"Come."

She deliberately didn't bother with an attempt to rearrange her bare limbs into a more sedate posture; she knew who waited at her door, and she found some small nuance of satisfaction in the idea of watching his reaction to her state of dress - or undress, depending on how one chose to look at it.

The black-cloaked figure moved with certainty through the sitting area, guided by the darkness that guided him in all things.

In the soft lighting of the boudoir, the shadows beneath his hood concealed everything except the strange glow of amber eyes.

"Milady," he said, in a surprisingly cultured accent. "My Master extends his greetings and requests an update on your current situation."

N'Vell pretended to study a crimson-tipped nail while actually noting that the dark lord's eyes were calmly following the graceful curve of her limbs as she adjusted her position on the wide bed. "Is that really why you're here, my lord, or did you have other things in mind?"

The tall figure moved closer until he was standing directly beside the bed, looking down at her with lust-filled eyes. "That is the official purpose for my visit, though I might be . . . persuaded to explore other avenues."

N'Vell laughed. "Ah, Maul, my brother would have approved."

"Your report?"

She lay back against silken pillows. "I've prepared a data chip for you to take with you, containing all the pertinent information. Basically, it says that all is going wonderfully. Despite the boy's rash behavior, I've managed to effect damage control, by blanking the memory of the padawan who tricked him into betraying himself, and Oomy, for the moment, will remember nothing beyond the pain of her disobedience. She won't recall anything about the attack on Kenobi."

"And the boy. Has he managed to get close to Jinn?"

"Oh, yes. Closer with every passing moment."

Darth Maul stared down at the Telosian princess and only barely managed to conceal his contempt. He understood that, because of the strict limitations placed on Sith training protocols, it was vital to make use of any and all opportunities that arose, including the greed and venality of cretins like this woman. But it offended his sense of propriety nevertheless. The Sith existed in a state of total purity, completely devoted to the promotion of the Dark Side of the Force. They needed no petty motives such as those that motivated this pathetic creature.

Yet, for the moment, they must use whatever means they could find, and this woman, with her rabid thirst for revenge against the Jedi, not to mention her rabid hunger for the flesh of at least one of those Jedi, had resources and manpower sufficient to provide massive aid for their cause, whether she knew it or not.

"And the padawan?" he asked, reaching out with one gloved hand to stroke the line of her jaw.

Her smile was smug and arrogant. "That's the best news of all. It won't be necessary for us to pursue him. On the contrary, he'll come to us, when the time is right."

Maul feigned approval; in truth, he cared very little what happened to the padawan; no more than he would care about the fate of any Jedi. The only good padawan, from his perspective, was a dead padawan, although he was forced to admit, having seen a few holopics of the one in question here, that death would be a terrible waste of physical beauty. It was, however, what would happen within the Temple that concerned him, but he must heed his Master's instructions to do nothing to alert this dreadful harlot of the deception so easily foisted upon her.

N'Vell reached up and threw back the hood that shadowed that powerful scarlet and black visage, and, as always, had to resist a tiny nuance of unease. She was very rich and very powerful and strong in the Force, so she assumed that she had nothing to fear from the Sith. Yet, she acknowledged that there was a raw power within him that forced her to question her own ability to control the moment.

Her breath caught suddenly in her throat as the dark figure bent over her and buried his face in her throat, his teeth sharp against the delicate skin there.

Maul almost snickered. Foolish whore. I will ravage your flesh and leave you bruised and bloodied, and you will call it lovemaking. One day, you will know. This is not lovemaking. Nor is it sex. This is rape, and for this moment, I own you, much more completely than you will ever own that Jedi child.

The luxury yacht hung motionless in deep space, a small, nondescript shuttle temporarily adjoined to it. The crew of the yacht and its small contingent of passengers - other than its owner - were careful to maintain silence during the hours while the two ships were conjoined. None of them, if questioned, could have quite defined why they were so unnerved; nothing remarkable was happening, other than occasional odd sounds from the Mistress' quarters, which were not, given her quite openly known tastes, really so odd. Still, when the tall figure shrouded in black exited the luxury suite, made his way back to the docking hatch, and immediately detached his vessel, a shudder of relief seemed to sweep through the yacht.

N'Vell Aji did not put in an appearance outside the confines of her cabin for the remainder of the trip, but her personal servant, a twi'lek slave girl named Vicselle, admitted, after much badgering, that her Mistress was keeping to her bed, refusing even the ritual sexual servicing that was expected from the girl on a daily basis.

The crew - and Maleonaka Sirvik - received the news with patent disbelief. If N'Vell Aji was uninterested in sexual release, the galaxy must certainly be ready to tilt on its axis. The extent of the Telosian princess's voracious appetite was common knowledge.

All in all, they finally decided, they were better off not knowing, and it would never even have occurred to them - not even Sirvik - to ask.

One did not, after all, risk death to satisfy idle curiosity.

 

******************* ******************* ******************

 

It was unusual during these days of galactic unrest for the Jedi Council to meet with a full complement of members; there were almost always one or two seats vacant, at any given time.

But not today.

Today all twelve senior Councilors were in attendance, all focused on the lone Jedi Master standing at the center of the chamber, staring back at them with superficial calm.

Unfortunately, from his perspective, superficial calm was no better than no calm at all, for all of them could sense his disquiet, and identify the reason for it.

The silence in the room seemed to stretch to infinity in the moments after Qui-Gon took his place before them.

Finally, Master Yoda sighed, and blinked huge, yellow-green eyes at his former Padawan. "Know why you have been summoned, do you?"

Qui-Gon confined his response to a nod.

"Serious is this charge, Master Qui-Gon. A response, have you?"

The tall Master looked over at Master Adi Gallia, and found that her gaze was every bit as steady and determined as his own.

"Master Gallia," he said firmly, "is mistaken. These charges are without merit."

Adi Gallia took time for a deep breath. She had no intention of standing by and allowing Qui-Gon to evade his responsibility in this debacle.

"Then you deny," she said, "that you struck your padawan, and then proceeded to sever the training bond with him, without any preparation or recourse to a healer's intercession?"

"I deny none of that, but the circumstances . . ."

Plo-Koon sat forward and regarded the Master solemnly. "Please continue, Master Qui-Gon. I would hear these 'circumstances' that make such behavior acceptable - behavior, I might add, that violates virtually every facet of the laws governing the administration of a Master/Padawan bond."

"He was guilty of unspeakable acts. Acts which betrayed everything the Jedi order stands for."

Yoda slowly lowered himself to the floor and walked forward, gesturing for Qui-Gon to kneel before him. When the towering Jedi obeyed, and they were able to stare at each other, eye-to-eye, Yoda asked his salient question. "And you know this how?"

"Master, I saw . . ."

"No!" The great chamber almost echoed from the force of that single word. "Do not tell me what you saw with your eyes. The truth is within you; it has been within you since the moment it happened."

Qui-Gon was hard put not to squirm beneath the terrible scrutiny of those huge eyes.

"I don't know what you mean."

Yoda's ears drooped abruptly. "A sad day it is, when a Master Jedi lies, not only to the Council, but to himself."

"But I don't . . ."

"We will hear no more of this," said Mace Windu abruptly, a rare gleam of anger glowing in his dark eyes. "Until you are prepared to face this body with a true accounting of your actions, and those of your apprentice, you are suspended from your duties and confined to the Temple. You are dismissed."

But when Qui-Gon rose to his feet, he made no move to depart. He merely stood quietly, hands buried in the sleeves of his cloak.

"I said you're dismissed." Windu's voice was rimed with shards of ice.

"There is another matter that must be addressed," Qui-Gon insisted calmly.

Master Yoda looked up at him and sighed. "Even now," he said wearily, "all that concerns you is the boy."

"As he should concern all of you," said the towering Master. "Such abilities cannot be wasted, in good conscience. The boy has suffered throughout his life, is suffering now, through no fault of his own. We must not just throw him away."

Adi Gallia shot to her feet. "The way you threw Obi-Wan away. Is that what you mean?"

Qui-Gon spun to face her, and no one in the chamber had any illusions about the degree of rage within him or how close he was to challenging the Councilor with his blade. "His actions betrayed the Jedi. I threw away nothing!"

Adi drew a deep shaky breath, and moved forward with boneless grace until she stood virtually nose-to-nose with the irate Master.

She reached up and touched his forehead, tapping with a gentle finger. "It's all in there, you know. Right where you've locked it up, so you don't have to look at it. But it won't stay there forever. One day, in a moment of epiphany, it's going to come bursting through. And when it does, everything you are - everything you've ever done - is just going to become meaningless. What you destroyed, most of us are never even privileged enough to get close to. You're a fool, Master Jinn, and the true tragedy is, that you're not the one who's paying for your foolishness. Not yet. But someday. Someday."

Without another word, Adi walked out of the chamber, leaving a heavy silence behind her.

"Is that what all of you believe?" asked Qui-Gon, trying to control his breathing.

Their answer was evident in the sadness within their eyes.

Master Jinn squared his shoulders. "Very well, then. With or without the consent of the Council, I take Xani of Mejanis, son of Xanatos of Telos, as my padawan learner."

He paused and waited expectantly.

Yoda merely stared for a moment before uttering a single word. "Without."

Qui-Gon actually had to suppress a gasp. Surely he'd misunderstood. They could not . . .

"Yes," said Mace Windu. "We can. There are still too many questions about the boy, too many unresolved issues."

"But he needs . . "

"His needs," said Yoda, "you have made your first priority. With you, he may remain, for the moment. But if you insist on beginning his training, you jeopardize your own place in the order."

Qui-Gon found that he simply could not believe what he was hearing. "You would threaten me? With expulsion? I have given my life . . ."

"Just as others have," Mace was quick to remind him. "That didn't seem to have any effect on your decision to render that judgment, deciding the fate of another."

"But . . ."

"No more," said Yoda. "Ended is this discussion. Your decision, it remains. But mistake it not, this is the will of the entire Council. Defy it at your own risk."

Finally, after an obvious struggle to control his outrage, the tall Master sketched a shallow bow. "Am I at least allowed to return to discuss the matter further, at a later date?"

Again Yoda moved forward and stared up into the blazing eyes of his former Padawan. "A deal I will make with you, Qui-Gon. On the day that you are willing to look into your heart and see the truth, you may return to this Council, to appeal our decisions regarding both your suspension and the fate of the boy."

Qui-Gon closed his eyes, and forced himself to bite his tongue to stifle the response that lingered there on its very tip. The little troll had trumped him - had established conditions that he could neither dispute, nor allow.

Finally, his anger still seething around him, the Master turned and swept from the chamber.

Mace Windu regarded the elder statesman of the Jedi Council with tired eyes. "He won't, you know. He can't. It would kill him."

Yoda nodded. "But, in the end, he must, or kill them both, it will."

 

********************** ************** ********************

 

In the final analysis, it was a toss up which of them was more startled when Xani palmed the door of the quarters he shared with Qui-Gon Jinn, and found Oomy standing in the hallway. Still clad in a nondescript, barely adequate medical gown, the child was thoroughly chilled, but not in the least cowed by the flare of rage on Xani's features.

"Where's my Obi?" she asked, marching past him as if the quarters were her own private domain.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "You're not even supposed to be out of the healers' wing."

"Want my Obi," she insisted, proceeding toward the bedroom once occupied by her favorite padawan.

"He's gone," said Xani, a sly expression rising in his eyes. "He couldn't stand being around you any more, so he's gone."

Oomy turned to face him, and he knew immediately that he'd miscalculated badly - again. It was something he seemed to do, a lot, in Oomy's presence. "You're a liar," she replied, in a perfectly conversational tone. "Where is he?"

"I told you. He's gone."

She studied his face for a moment, and he resisted the urge to fidget. "Yes," she said finally. "I can see that he is."

He shuffled his feet, and took a chance on looking up at her from beneath lowered lashes. "Are you . . . Do you . . ."

"I don't remember it," she supplied, but the speculative look in her remarkable gray eyes continued. "But I will, sooner or later."

A frown touched his forehead. "You sound different," he accused suddenly. "Not so much like a baby."

She actually grinned. "You know, a smart person could figure out that she'd be safer, if nobody knew she could understand all the stuff going on around her."

Xani felt the cold touch of fear in his intestines, and even lower. "You mean you . . . "

"You figure it out," she interrupted.

"You better just watch it," he said softly. "If _she_ knows you've been faking it all this time . . ."

"What makes you think she doesn't? She may be an ice queen, but she's not stupid."

He stepped closer to her, and the extreme difference in their sizes made it necessary for her to arch her neck to look up at him. Still, there was no fear in her eyes, much to his chagrin. "What difference do you think it'll make, you little twit? You can't resist her, any more than you can resist me. You know that."

"Do I?" she asked with a smile. "That's what I've always been told, but maybe you - and she - don't know quite as much as you think you do."

He laughed coldly. "Try to resist, and you'll find out just how true it is."

"Maybe I will," she retorted, going to the door.

Which opened as she reached it, to admit the towering figure of Master Qui-Gon Jinn, who almost stepped directly on top of the little girl.

When the Jedi recognized the identity of this tiny interloper, he barely managed to suppress a moan. First the Council, and now this miniature virago, who was looking at him with every bit as much loathing as she had displayed in their prior encounters.

"Oomy," he said gently, "shouldn't you still be with the healers? You don't look well."

She stared with huge, accusing eyes. "I'm all right," she answered firmly, "except for one thing. I can't find my Obi. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

He sighed. "I don't know where he is, Oomy."

Her eyes seemed, impossibly, to grow brighter and bigger. "You're a monster," she said softly. "You sent him away. You sent my Obi away, when all he ever did was give you his heart and his love. You sent him away, so you could have this . . this . . ."

"Oomy . . ."

"I hate you," she replied, not with anger or bitterness. Just very factually and calmly. "I hate you, and what you did to him. I hate both of you. And you'll be sorry one day. Just wait and see. You'll be sorry."

And she was gone, without so much as another glance at either of them. As if they were beneath her notice.

"Master," said Xani, suddenly nervous at the desolation he read in Qui-Gon's eyes. "She's just a silly kid, who had a crush on him. She'll forget all about him when he's been gone a few days. They all will. You'll see."

"Xani, I don't think . . ."

"They will, Master. You're the special one, the one they all admire and look up to. He was just your shadow. They'll forget him, especially when they see how wonderful you and I are together. He could never have been what I'll be to you. You know that. Don't you?"

Qui-Gon moved to the couch and lowered himself gingerly, noticing that his body was stiff and sore and unutterably weary. Was this what getting old felt like, he wondered. Was he getting old?

He looked at the boy, and was struck anew by the sheer physical beauty of the child. Saw the lustrous dark hair, the coppery skin, the deep sapphire eyes - so beautiful. So different from . . .

No. He would not do this. He would not allow this comparison, any more.

Xani was his future. Xani, who was looking at him now with a strange hunger in his eyes.

Qui-Gon gestured for the boy to come to him and wrapped him in a warm hug. "Yes, my Padawan," he said gently, "I do know. You will be my everything."

Xani could only sigh his contentment.

 

*************** **************** *****************

 

They had named it Haven, and it took Obi-Wan all of ten minutes to figure out why.

The sun, the system, the planetoid, the villages that dotted the small globe, the weather, the topography, everything, was absolutely perfect. And as artifical as an astro-droid.

The first clue, and the only one that was necessary really, was that the gravity of the tiny sphere was roughly equal to that of Coruscant Prime. Definitely not a naturally occurring phenomenon.

And by the time the _Lady Ghost_ was secured in an orbital docking bay, and the crew had debarked via shuttle, the young Jedi had noted enough physical anomalies to fill a textbook.

As he walked out of the singular building that housed the spaceport, he turned to confront Captain Fer'mia. "Any idea who built it, and why? I assume they're either long gone, or extremely hospitable."

Fer'mia grinned. "Nobody's hospitable enough to put up with an invasion like this. I mean, we're not exactly the cream of society here, you know."

"Speak for yourself," said Palani, with a raucous laugh. "The rest of us may be the social dregs, but Obi there could probably put us all on the road to respectability. Just open that sweet mouth, Darlin', and let 'em get a load of that accent. Nobody's going to doubt us."

"Right," said the Captain, "until the rest of you get caught up in a belching contest, or decide to entertain the swells with your latest bawdy limericks."

Zark Quebal laughed. "Would that offend you, Obi-Wan?"

The Jedi smiled. "I like limericks."

Fer'mia groaned, as more raucous laughter rang out. "You had to say that? You had to encourage them?"

"There was a big girl from Naboo," chanted several of the crewmembers.

"Not now," said Fer'mia loudly, inspiring a series of catcalls and boos. "Later. I'm sure Obi-Wan will wait with bated breath for your poetic efforts."

Bringing up the rear, well back in the crowd, three crewman exchanged brief glances on hearing the Captain's remark. One of them - the odd little man called Batzo - leaned forward and whispered to the other two, "Before we're done with him, his breath'll be more than bated."

The second, the one who had tossed a knife toward the Jedi's heart in the confrontation in the mess hall, nodded. "Little bastard needs to be taught he's no better than the rest of us."

The third, a hulking brute with massive shoulders and a prognathous jaw, merely grinned.

A fourth figure, much smaller, and more agile, suddenly stepped forward among the three, and they recoiled immediately. Solitaire - the Weapons Master - regarded the three silently for a moment.

"You three think you're going to teach him that lesson?" he said at last, very softly.

It was Batzo who answered, attempting to compensate for the unease he always felt whenever the Weapons Master turned that blank mask toward him. "Unless you're planning to turn us in. Course, there's no law against just talkin'. Is there?"

A soft chuckle sounded from beneath the armored mask, and the three men exchanged uneasy glances. None of them could ever remember hearing Solitaire laugh before.

"When you get up the balls to go through with it," said the Ambrian, still chortling, "call me. This I'll pay to watch."

 

****************** ****************** ***************

The small city was spectacularly beautiful, he decided immediately, as well as totally unique. The buildings, instead of being built from artificial materials, appeared to have been grown, from some type of organic crystal.

And what buildings they were. Soaring, free-form shapes, which looked as fresh as if they had been formed just the day before, sparkling in the bright sunlight in jewel tones of rose quartz and topaz and aquamarine, with prisms that reflected every color of the spectrum back into the eye of the beholder.

"What kind of place is this?" he asked finally, noting the gracefully curving walkways, and spiral ramps sweeping aloft to meet gleaming multi-level balconies chased with silver and ivory tracery. And everywhere, everywhere, life was teeming. Exotic plants, trees, flowers and foliage adorned every possible surface, and beautiful winged insects darted everywhere. Overhead, birds with brilliant plumage filled the sky, and broad fountains set into every available flat surface glinted with a rainbow flourescence as beautiful aquatic creatures swam in the pools that mirrored the fountains and the beauty around them.

Most of the crew had wandered off by this point, to enjoy a respite from their duties for a few hours, to rejoin families or friends or drinking buddies. Only Fer'mia, Quebal, Palani, and Solitaire remained.

"We don't really know," admitted Quebal. "It was just sitting here waiting for us when we arrived, and we've made the most of it. All our families are here, and a lot of the refugees we've rescued from Drimula. Guess that'll all have to change now, huh?"

Obi-Wan nodded. "Unless they want to be trapped in here for a few decades."

"You mean it'll re-open?" asked Palani.

"Eventually," said the young Jedi, looking around appreciatively. "Not a bad place to spend a lifetime, all in all. Did you ever look for records, logs, anything to explain all this?"

Fer'mia nodded. "We found some computer banks, but everything was wiped clean. And the printed material is pretty much useless to us. We're not scientists, Obi, or archeologists. We're warriors. Somebody might be able to figure out what this place is; the Jedi could probably do it. Maybe you can do it. But we can't. All we've been able to do is give it our best guess."

"Which is what?"

"A resort," answered Palani. "A playground. Someplace they built to get away from it all. A vacation spot."

"Well, it's certainly beautiful enough," replied Obi-Wan. "But somehow . . ."

"You don't think so," said Solitaire, his mechanical tone still managing, somehow, to convey a sense of amusement.

"Any idea how old it is?"

"Now that we do know how to do," replied Quebal. "According to our instruments, it's on the order of slightly more than fifty millenia."

"Fifty?" echoed Obi-Wan. "But it's all still perfect. How can that be?"

With an admirable economy of motion, Solitaire drew a blaster from his holster and fired twin bolts into the wall beside them, an expanse of lovely moss green crystal.

Two jagged ruptures appeared in the outer surface of the wall (failing to penetrate any further, noted Obi-Wan), and the entire wall appeared to flicker slightly. Then, in the blink of an eye, the wall simply closed up, repairing itself. In seconds, there was no trace of the damage.

Palani chuckled at the look of amazement on the Jedi's face. "It's got even better reflexes than you, Kid," she said.

Fer'mia led the way into the building which Solitaire had just attacked. "I've put you in quarters between Zark and Solitaire," explained the Captain. "We need to take a look at intelligence reports, do some restocking of the ship, minor maintenance. Probably only be here until tomorrow, but we've all found that it's good to have a place of your own, away from the ship. Even if you're almost never in it."

He stopped before a free-form door - whoever had built this place seemed to have no love for sharp angles - and palmed it open. "You can set it for your own print."

Obi-Wan nodded and stepped inside and was astonished once more by the sheer loveliness of the surroundings.

"Wow!" he said softly, and knew the comment didn't even come close to doing justice to the elegance of the apartment. Though not large, it was extremely luxurious. "This is too . . ."

Fer'mia laughed. "Don't let it overwhelm you. Here, we all live like this."

Again, the Captain studied the Jedi's face. "You know, it's probably none of my business, but I'll say it anyway. You look like hell, Kenobi. Have you slept since you left Coruscant? I mean really slept."

Obi-Wan smiled. "Kind of hard to sleep soundly when you're busy protecting your virtue."

"True," laughed the Captain, then sobered abruptly. "I think maybe it's time I stepped in, and put a stop to that. You've provided me with sufficient reason to be able to do so with good cause. You're just too damned valuable to risk."

Obi-Wan didn't even bother to mention the Jedi philosophy that contended that everybody should be treated as 'too valuable to risk'. He knew, full well, that it just didn't apply here, among people who lived so close to the edge of their own mortality.

"Why don't you get some sleep?" Fer'mia suggested. "I'll call for you later, and we'll all meet up for dinner." 

Obi-Wan was about to protest that he really should go with the Captain to review any new intelligence data, when he caught a glimpse of what might well be equal to his own personal definition of heaven, through an open doorway. A bed, but not just any bed. A complete, total sensual perfection of a bed - huge, soft, covered with acres of soft linen and mounds of pillows, with a small gurgling fountain dancing beside it, providing the most soothing and somnolent of sounds to promote peaceful slumber.

"Well," said the Jedi, eyes already heavy, "maybe for just a little while."

Fer'mia smiled gently, as the boy was drawn to the siren's song of the bed as surely as a moon to its planet. 

The Captain departed, setting the locking mechanism carefully, and, as an added precaution, activating a guard droid in the corridor.

He had no idea what the future, or even tomorrow, might hold for the young Jedi or, indeed, for any of them, but he made sure that, for the next few hours, the boy would get some badly needed sleep, unthreatened and undisturbed.

******************** ******************* ***************

_He walked softly through sand as fine as powder, with waves lapping at his bare feet, under a huge double moon. Far out to sea, he could hear the roar of huge breakers, pounding at some unseen promontory, but here, all was peaceful. The night was a symphony for the senses, as the smell of dewy blossoms was overlaid with the scent of some lovely, exotic spice. And the light of the moons painted the foliage with glossy tints of midnight and garnet and emerald._

_Above him, the spectacle of the firmaments seemed to rain radiance on his face, touching him with a warmth that swept through him and anchored him to the sweet sands on which he walked._

_Through the darkness, he gradually became aware of movement in the distance, very far away, at the extreme range of his vision._

_Something - or someone - swathed in pure, spotless white, a slender sylph against the darkness. Something that seemed to beckon to him, to reach for him._

_But no matter how much he tried to move toward that distant figure, it remained too far away to see clearly._

_Finally, despite the lush beauty around him, he grew impatient and turned his back on that annoying vision._

_He lay back on the sand, and closed his eyes and heard the surf murmur to him._

_"You must bring her to me, Obi-Wan. You must bring them all to me."_

_Immediately, he was on his feet, reaching for his lightsaber which, for some reason, had been transformed into a tall candle. Now this was really ridiculous. How was he going to fight a - whatever it was - with a candle?_

_But, when he looked, whatever it was, was nowhere to be seen._

_Again he settled himself and closed his eyes. And again the voice was there._

_"You must bring them soon, my Obi. Or it will be too late."_

_He was imagining it. That was it. He was really tired, had been too tired for days. It was all his imagination._

_Including the soft, warm lips that suddenly, briefly touched his own._

Obi-Wan leapt to his feet, having successfully located his lightsaber this time. And found himself dragged off-balance by the depths of cloud-soft blanket that clung to him, as he remembered where he was. 

A glance at the quality of light beyond the draped window told him that he had slept several hours, and the clarity of his mind informed him that it was no more than he'd needed.

So why was he shaking?

With trembling fingers, he touched his lips, still somehow tasting a lovely sweetness, a lingering warmth.

He closed his eyes and reached out through the Force. And realized immediately, when he found what he hadn't known he was looking for, that, in some way, he had known.

Obi-Wan sank back to the bed and gazed into nothingness as a small smile touched his lips.

Not a resort. No, indeed. Not a vacation spot or a playground. None of those things.

A terminal. A way station.

The passageway to another dimension. And somewhere on this lovely planet, probably not so far away, was the actual gateway.

Tomorrow, he would find it.

************* ****************** ****************  
tbc


	17. Only the Heart

Chapter 17: Only the Heart

 

_Only the heart weeps, drained of hope;_  
_Not one dove in its soaring flight;_  
_Not one moth in its search for light;_  
_Not one rose in its bower grown._  
_Only the heart; it weeps alone._

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

If Haven during the day was a paradise, Haven at night was a fairyland, a visual feast that threatened to overload the processing centers of the brain, aglow, but without harsh glitter; painted with pure, crystalline pastel transparencies washed across the texture of deepening shadows. Spiral towers, spilling drifts of rose and violet and cerulean and jade into the darkness, caught the eye and directed it upward to where a sliver of moon, like beaten gold, rode feathers of cloud into the nebula-dusted splendor of the night sky.

Obi-Wan stood on the balcony outside his bedroom, staring out into a luminous vista that rivaled the panorama of the heavens in its incredible complexity, not to mention sheer, mind-boggling beauty. As a perfect finishing touch, at the very edge of the western horizon, the final death throes of the day were playing out in a spectacular burst of scarlet and citrine, crowned by the flicker of nebular incandescence.

Nearer at hand, clouds of tiny insects, winged in opalescence, rode the night wind or clustered among the bell-like blossoms of a thick, succulent vine that clung to the railing of the balcony - blossoms that ranged from a delicate blush pink that was almost ivory to a red so deep it echoed the ruby luster of vintage wine. The fragrance of the blossoms - heavy, exotic, and somehow lethargic, whispering of soft shared laughter and warm tropical breezes - blended with the scent of the hand-worked leather of his copper-hued jacket, and Obi-Wan found the combination pleasing and slightly erotic.

The air was incredibly rich with the essence of life, and the Force was an almost palpable presence, so real and tangible that he could almost feel the touch of phantom hands as they reached for him. On such a night, surely even those with no Force sensitivity within them must somehow be aware of the throb of the great heartbeat of life. For one blessed, all his life, with the ability to reach out and wrap that great, lush presence around him, it was almost overwhelming. The subdued voices that guided him every day of his life seemed suddenly to sing with the joy and energy of this enchanted place, as if an a cappella melody had suddenly swelled into an orchestral symphony.

That must, he thought, be the reason for the wetness welling in his eyes; that sense of overload. He would not cry. It served no purpose; it gained him nothing. And he really had no valid excuse for it. He had been welcomed into a cause that suited his talents admirably, by a band of warriors who, for the most part, dwelled in honor and noble purpose. The place they had made for him was his to keep, if he wished it, and the voices of their praise and approval were warm and soothing.

They just weren't . . . oh, bloody hell. They just weren't the right voice.

How long? he wondered. How long before it no longer mattered that, in the chorus of "Well dones" and "Bravos", one voice - that one, deep mellow voice - would remain, for him, forever silent?

When Arain Fer'mia approached the arched doorway that opened onto the terrace where the young Jedi stood, he was gripped with a sudden sense of awe. From his perspective, Obi-Wan stood framed in the spectacle of the day's demise, the light of distant stars and the radiance of the sun's farewell touching his hair to pale fire, and painting his features with a chiaroscuro of light and shadow that glowed with tenderness, and exposed a raw, aching need that the Drimulan knew - beyond all doubt - the boy would never have allowed to breech his shielding so openly had he known he was being observed. The luster of sunset traced the track of the single tear that escaped that rigid control.

The Captain of the _Lady Ghost_ had a sudden, almost uncontrollable urge to grab a shuttle, and go tearing off to Coruscant for the express purpose of beating the bloody hell out of one bone-headed, wrong-headed, unbelievably cruel Jedi Master. Fer'mia had no Force sensitivity. None. Had never so much as experienced even the mildest form of Déjà vu. But he knew in his heart, somehow, what that great and vaunted and all-powerful Jedi Master apparently did not. Knew - not believed. Not thought. Not concluded. Knew. Knew that this man/child, this young miracle, could never have done the things of which he stood accused. Never. It was simply not in his nature. 

The padawan stood at the lip of the balcony, and the universe smiled on him, and basked in his presence. And the captain felt instinctively that the real tragedy of it all was that the young Jedi was incapable of smiling back. For a tiny moment, Fer'mia almost thought he saw a pulse of radiance envelop the young man. But, of course, that was just his own imagination. People didn't actually glow, no matter how beloved of the Force, he told himself. Repeatedly.

"Obi-Wan," he called softly, almost reluctant to interrupt the boy's reverie. "Let's go eat."

The Jedi turned, and Fer'mia imagined that he could almost hear the slam of impregnable shields falling into place. "Tell me, Captain," said the Jedi with a small, slightly embarrassed smile. "Does this restaurant, by any chance, serve Alderaanian brandy?"

Fer'mia laughed. "Not hardly, Padawan. They wouldn't know brandy from moonshine. But there is another potable delicacy that you might find amusing."

Obi-Wan paused to adjust the blaster strapped to his thigh, and to reposition the lightsaber now secured in the new strap he had affixed to the holster for that exact purpose. He smiled as he looked up to meet Fer'mia's gaze, recognizing the slight vein of irony in the Captain's voice. "And what might that be?"

Grinning broadly now, the Drimulan threw an arm around the Jedi's shoulders and said, "Come along, me lad, and I'll introduce you to Drim-rum. And, after the second shot, you won't remember that you ever wanted anything else."

Obi-Wan glanced once more into the wonderland laid out beyond the terrace and sighed. He thought, for the first time in his life, that maybe he wanted to get completely, totally, mindlessly, sloppy, falling-down drunk. The Force still stroked him with loving fingers and sang in his mind, but it wasn't enough. No matter how hard it tried, it couldn't fill the yawning void that crouched at the center of his being. He was becoming more certain with every passing hour that nothing ever would.

The emptiness was becoming more and more painful, and harder and harder to ignore.

But, he thought, maybe if he was drunk enough, and loud enough, and loose enough, and obnoxious enough, he wouldn't hear the echoes any more.

 

*************** ********************* ****************

There were no ugly structures on Haven; no examples of exquisitely bad taste, no screamingly awkward angles or layer-upon-layer excesses, or displays of gross vulgarity. There were, however, ample opportunities for self-expression to be found in the settings within the structures. It was rather as if those who designed the exquisite grace and harmony of the exterior left the interior for those with less sweeping vision to express their more limited worldview.

Thus, a place like the Tavern was possible in a world of near perfect beauty. The Tavern, not to put too fine a point on it, was tauntaun ugly - dark, graceless, smelly, smoke-filled, and stained with splotches of things best left unidentified. It was also, however, somehow enormously comforting and welcoming, giving rise to speculation (from those capable of grasping the concept) that the beauty without was, perhaps, just a hair too sterile, too perfect, too unreachable from the perspective of the common man.

On entering the huge restaurant, it was immediately obvious that this was _the_ place to be on Haven - to see and be seen, and to meet and greet. Most of the crew of the _Lady Ghost_ were already present when the captain's party arrived, with the remainder drifting in at a steady clip. In addition, the lower section, the saloon area, was filled almost to capacity with members of other ship's crews, and with a healthy cross-section of the Drimulan refugee population. The atmosphere was casual and friendly, if slightly hard-edged. There was a sense of camaraderie, but these people - both men and women - exuded an aura of having only recently stepped out of the darker fringes of existence to claim a place in the light, and of being perfectly capable of going back into that looming darkness should the necessity arise.

Despite the crowded nature of the bar area, tables were cleared immediately for the Captain Fer'mia and his bridge crew, and the mass of individuals gathered around them seemed to thicken with every passing moment. Most of the crewmembers of the Ghost fleet were Drimulan; they fought their endless war against overwhelming odds and with little real hope for victory, because it was their home world and their people that were at stake. But though their cause was common, their views of what actions should be taken were not, and infighting had, at one time, almost defeated them, much more surely than the efforts of their enemy. In the end, what had pulled them together had not, after all, been their common cause, but the only man who had managed to force them to put aside their differences in pursuit of a shared goal.

Arain Fer'mia was the heart and soul of Drimulan resistance. It was forged by his determination, and ruled with the iron hand required to maintain its focus. Unlike many rebel heroes, he was not universally loved; his passion for justice sometimes exacted extremely harsh penalties for infractions of the rules he enacted. The rules were not numerous, but they were absolute. One ignored them at his own peril. Thus, while there were those who loathed the fleet commander - probably with sufficient cause - there were none who did not respect him. And this was all he expected or demanded from his warriors.

While he had earned the reputation for harsh and swift administration of justice, he was also known to be generous with his praise and recognition, and almost obsessive in his determination to repay loyalty in kind. Thus, when Fer'mia and his crew were in port - and in party mode - they attracted the attention of everyone within their social radius.

And, of course, on this night, there was a new, added attraction, already the subject of much gossip and speculation and curiosity. Fer'mia, it was said, had bagged himself a baby Jedi, and everyone wanted a closer look.

Obi-Wan, initially, felt a bit like someone had trained a huge spotlight at his head.

Fer'mia, attuned to his surroundings as always, noticed the young man's marginal discomfort and leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "You know, if you'd just hop up on that bar and walk it like a catwalk, they'd probably stop staring."

The young Jedi, apparently deciding that there was no point in inflating a minor discomfort to a major contretemps, grinned, and settled in to enjoy the evening.

The captain was quickly proven right about one thing, at least. By the time Obi-Wan had tossed off his second shot of Drim-rum, he couldn't have cared less what he was drinking. By the fourth, he was regaling the delighted crowd with every naughty limerick he had ever learned, and he'd learned plenty over the years, although he did resist, rather firmly, the suggestion that he climb up on the table top for his recitation. By the fifth shot, he was so relaxed and comfortable that he seemed to take absolutely no notice when, at a signal from the Captain, Palani Vau-Bremayne and Arilee Colos, ship's navigator, moved their chairs close on either side of him, so that he was practically sprawled across both their laps. He accepted their proximity with a lopsided smile, and never noticed, somehow, that the ongoing joke about them both being intent on the corruption of his virtue masked the fact that any greedy hand straying a little too close to any area of his body that they deemed off-limits, was treated to quick, decisive discouragement from gloved fists, which concealed tiny but lethal vibro-blades. Greasy, sneaky little Batzo had cause, several times, to curse their vigilance.

At one point, the young Jedi leaned forward, reached out and grasped the captain's collar and pulled so that he could whisper some bit of information directly in Fer'mia's ear. For his part, the Drimulan managed to listen with a small smile without appearing too startled at the curiously intimate quality of the gesture. When Obi-Wan sat back, the captain merely nodded, his eyes lingering for a moment on the Jedi's face before turning away to sweep the bar. He then tapped his second-in-command on the shoulder, and relayed a comment that put a huge grin on Quebal's face. 

Fer'mia had kept a steady watch on his crew throughout the evening, and chose his moment perfectly, the exact moment before - barely - a combination of too much alcohol, too little inhibition, and too much awareness of their own very real, very close-at-hand mortality (plus the added piquancy of the temptation inherent in one very young, very lovely, very drunk ex-Jedi Padawan) shifted them from a friendly if slightly rowdy mob into two pugnacious groups, each intent on their own agenda: one (by far the larger group) to protect and preserve; the other to sample a dish now deemed virtually irresistible.

"Palani," said the Captain, making sure he spoke loudly enough for everyone in the group to hear, "take our young friend upstairs, and get some food in him. Now!"

The first mate and the navigator stood, each slipping one shoulder under a thoroughly relaxed Jedi arm. "Where we goin'?" asked their young burden, apparently totally oblivious to the tension hovering around him.

"To get something to eat," answered Palani gently. "You're hungry, aren't you?"

He smiled, and the Corellian woman felt the sweetness of it touch her soul. "Not hungry. Thirsty."

"Then we'll get a drink when we get there." That was Arilee, exchanging rueful glances with her cohort.

Abruptly, and much more strongly than they would have expected given his condition, Obi-Wan twisted his body and lunged forward, disengaging himself from the grasp of both women, and coming to rest, finally, braced between two men who were just working their way around the boisterous main table.

"Uh, oh," said Obi-wan with a grin, trying without success to push away from the grip that steadied him. "Sorry about that. Didn't mean to grope you . . ."

One of the men was scowling harshly, but the second - an older man with a tired face and graying hair - actually took a moment to cup that bright young face with an appreciative hand, as he replied, "Careful, my friend. Next time, someone might grope back." 

With that, he lifted the young Jedi into a relatively vertical position and pushed him gently back toward his companions before turning away to move to the nearby stairs. Obi-Wan, in the meanwhile, had managed to drape himself around Palani's neck. "Let's dance," he said, laughing softly, as the first mate was briefly assailed with a series of mental pictures that she absolutely would not allow herself to examine too closely.

"Give the kid what he wants," said a deep, throaty voice, as a massive pair of arms swept forward, managing, with one motion, to dislodge Palani (not easily done, at the best of times) and spin the Jedi around so that he landed against a huge, boulder-like shoulder. The owner of the boulder-shoulders was called Jebbitz and, like Palani, he was Corellian. Unlike Palani, he was atypical of most Corellians; he was bigger - much bigger.

Obi-Wan chuckled, as he tried to focus his eyes on . . . whatever it was he was leaning against. "Who put a tree here?"

Jebbitz gathered the Jedi into gargantuan arms and pulled him into a smothering embrace, taking a deep breath to savor the fragrance of soft, golden skin.

"Jeb!" The voice was not particularly loud, but it was very sharp.

Palani Vau-Bremayne and Solitaire stood shoulder to shoulder, each leveling a brace of blasters at the huge Corellian.

"Gentlemen," said the Captain of the _Lady Ghost_ , "I think this is the perfect time for my little announcement." He was smiling, but anyone who knew him well would have noticed the flakes of ice in his gray-green eyes, as he rose and looked around at the crowd, which had, by now, gone completely silent.

Except for Obi-Wan, who was now laughing because the hands of whoever or whatever it was that was holding him up had begun to stroke light circles on his back, and it tickled horribly.

Fer'mia spared a gentle look for the young Jedi, before turning a steady glare on his crew. "I am declaring a Drimulan blood bond. The gods know he's earned it, and will earn it even more in the days to come."

There was a faint groan by some in the crowd, quickly squelched as most of the crew simply nodded, understanding and accepting the wisdom of the Captain's actions. "He's already proved that he can handle whatever you throw at him, when he's sober, and the bottom line is that I need him more than I need any of you. This isn't his fight, but he's willing to stand with us anyway. That should be enough for you."

He turned then and looked directly at the giant who was still cradling Obi-Wan in huge, bracing arms. "Jebbitz, it's your call. But make no mistake about it. If you don't let him go, Solitaire is going to take your head off, with one shot, and Palani's going to take care of the rest of you. So decide. Now."

Jebbitz, who was truly as close to being a giant as anyone any of them had ever seen, spent a brief moment gazing down into that angelic face and those incredible sea change eyes that were still laughing up at him, apparently totally unafraid, before setting the boy on his feet and stepping back. He then looked toward Fer'mia with a sheepish grin, only to be forced to grab the young Jedi again as the boy toppled forward bonelessly.

"You want I should drop him, Cap'n?" asked Jebbitz, confusion flaring in pale, murky eyes.

Fer'mia grinned. Jebbitz, as a rule, wasn't a bad sort; he was mostly a gentle giant, and, in this case, the Captain thought - rightly - that the degree of temptation presented by the thoroughly inebriated young Jedi had simply proved to be too much for his somewhat limited intellect to process.

"No, Jeb. I want you to pick him up and take him upstairs to the dining area. We need to get some food into him, and sober him up a bit. Jhevaghn is going to be checking in soon, and I want him awake and functional when she does."

"I'm awake," said Obi-Wan, draped over the Corellian giant's forearm like the pelt of some exotic animal.

"Of course, you are, Darlin'," said Palani, motioning for Jebbitz to follow her up the stairs with his burden. As she turned, her eyes locked with those of her captain, and she could see that the same thought had occurred to both of them.

The massive Corellian stood for a moment, obviously debating his most discreet course of action. Then, with a small, slightly smug grin, he simply draped the Jedi over his shoulder, and headed for the stairs, to the accompaniment of friendly catcalls and whistles from his crew mates. As he approached the first step, Palani Vau-Bremayne gazed down at him, and could not suppress a grin at the sight of such a shapely Jedi bottom arranged so fetchingly across that huge shoulder. Obi-Wan, who had debated struggling to restore his dignity when first up-ended, had apparently decided to exercise the better part of valor, and lapse, once more, into soft laughter.

In the upper level of the bar/restaurant, reserved for more formal, less raucous patrons - and for dining - the lights were softer, and the music slightly more sensual. When Jebbitz gently lowered the Jedi into a captain's chair, Obi-Wan sat silently for a moment, then surged to his feet, grabbed Palani's wrist and pulled her forward to the miniscule dance floor. "Want to dance," he insisted.

Finally, she laughed and held out her arms. "All right. Come 'ere, Darlin'."

He grinned and started toward her, before pausing briefly and holding up his hand to signal her to wait. Then, with a very creditable approximation of a bump and grind, he removed his jacket and tossed it away, revealing a torso lightly glossed with a fine sheen of sweat, most noticeable in the v of pale gold visible beneath the open collar of his shirt.

Palani was forced to stifle a gasp, and had to resist an urge to call him a tease. One quick look at Jebbitz assured her that it would have been an entirely appropriate appellation.

The Jedi then shot her a grin guaranteed to melt lead before sweeping her into his arms and burying his face in her throat with a guttural groan that was half growl, half purr, and completely charming.

"Stop that, you little bastard," she laughed into his ear, "or I'll ravish you myself."

"Promises, promises," he replied, chuckling softly.

She pulled back and looked down into luminescent irises, as warm as tropical seas. "You're enjoying this way too much for someone who just took a chance on getting buggered, you know."

"Do you know," he said softly, "how you find out who your real friends are?"

A glint in his eyes fired the glow of amusement in her own. "In a sneaky way, no doubt."

"The sneakiest," he agreed, "but very effective. And, even more important, how do you find out who your friends _aren't_?"

She laughed aloud. "You're not drunk at all, are you?"

"Well, I wouldn't go that far," he replied. "Let's just say I can sober up really fast, if I need to."

"OK," she agreed. "So why are we out here on this dance floor while you wiggle your adorable little ass as if you can't get enough of everyone looking at you? Which they are, by the way."

He once more laid his head against her shoulder and murmured. "Skinny guy, salt and pepper hair, the one who came to my rescue downstairs, on your six - green jacket."

She faked a peal of laughter - rather convincingly - and spun him about, finally coming full circle. "Got him," she said. "So?"

"That datapad he keeps looking at isn't a datapad. Looks like some kind of remote decryption device."

Once more, she maneuvered around the floor to glance once more at the individual Obi-Wan found so interesting. "So? No law against decryption boxes."

"No, although I do wonder how he managed to get hold of something that sophisticated. Looks military to me," he agreed, "but there must be a law, somewhere, against what he's carrying inside his jacket."

"Which is?"

"A brace of thermal detonators. And his companion downstairs - he of the scowling countenance - is carrying a signal tracer. State-of-the-art, from what I could tell. As well as his own supply of detonators."

"Shit!" she hissed. "Are you sure? That could take out this whole place."

"Ummm, and more. So what's our friend doing now?"

She peeked again, then drew back and grinned. "The same thing as everybody else. Watching the sway of your shapely little behind."

He deliberately allowed himself to stagger just a bit, requiring Palani's firm hand to steady him. Then he looked up at her and gave her another one of those mega-watt smiles. "We need to make this look convincing," he said softly.

"Exactly what am I supposed to be convincing about?" She wasn't entirely sure she liked the gleam in his eyes.

"When we're turned in just the right way, so he can't miss seeing it, I want you to pinch me - hard."

Now it was her turn to grin. "Front or back, Luv?"

Charmingly, he blushed. "I don't think he'd get a very good view in front, do you?"

"No," she laughed, "but your performance would probably be much more realistic."

"No doubt. Still, can you just . . ."

"Sure, sure. But tell me something. How'd you spot him? I mean, you weren't faking the whole time. You drank that poison. So how'd you . . ."

He shrugged slightly. "It's a Jedi thing."

"You know," she said softly, "if I stayed around you very long, I think I'd probably be ready to kill you by the time you said that a few million times."

"Sorry. I don't know how else to explain it. Drunk or sober, it still seems to work."

She draped one arm over his shoulder and allowed herself another glance at their prey, who seemed a bit more nervous than he had been, his eyes sweeping the area around him as if searching for something. "Rain's on his way up," she reported, catching a glimpse of Fer'mia on the stairs, "and the waiter's bringing up our food. So be careful, OK? If you're gonna blast somebody, make sure you know who's in your sights."

Now it was his turn to pull back and favor her with a beaming smile. "Hey! I'm Jedi," he reminded her.

"Yeah. That's what scares me. You ready?"

He leaned forward again, using his chin to activate the communicator badge pinned to her chest. "All set?" he asked softly, speaking directly into the pick-up, and, at the same time, sending soft, warm drifts of air against Palani's collarbone. She managed, barely, not to squirm.

"Waiting for Rain's signal," came the response.

"You may pinch when ready," Obi-Wan muttered to Palani, nuzzling the side of her throat.

The pinch, when it came, was probably considerably harder than he'd expected, due to her knee-jerk response to the feel of those soft, sculpted lips against her skin. Obi-Wan - yelped; there was no other word for it.

Shocked, (or seemingly so) he slapped his hand to the "injury" and leapt away from her, just coincidentally in the direction of the datapad-obsessed stranger.

"Why did you do that?" Obi-Wan demanded, all injured innocence. "I'm not that kind of boy."

"Why, you little tart," she growled, "you've been shaking your butt in every face in the place. You're lucky a pinch is all you got. Now come back here, and let Mama make it all better."

"Get away from me." He was backing up, eyes wide, chest heaving, and Palani spared a thought to wishing she had a holo-cam, because this would definitely be worth watching later on, in the privacy of her quarters.

At about this time, Arain Fer'mia cleared the staircase and paused to watch the proceedings, his bemusement obvious in his face, one long-fingered hand braced against the stair railing.

"Come on, Little Baby," she crooned, stalking toward the Jedi, and barely managing to avoid hooting with laughter as he arranged his features in the loveliest pout she had seen in many a year. 

"You pinched me. You probably bruised me, and I hate bruises." He took three more steps back, looked down at the individual seated at the table beside him. The man with the datapad abruptly laid it aside as Obi-Wan casually bent over, baring the top of one perfect, pale cheek. "Would you take a look? See if she bruised me."

"Obi," Palani coaxed, now almost apoplectic in the attempt to suppress her laughter in response to the sheer terror on the spectator's face, although, panic-stricken or not, he was definitely taking advantage of the opportunity to take a close up look at that exquisite little backside. "The guy doesn't want to look at your bruises. You just come here, and I'll make it all better. OK, Baby?"

The stranger cleared his throat. "I think . . ."

Palani sneered at the interloper. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had this much fun. "Nobody asked you to think," she snarled.

"I did so ask him, you big brute" snapped Obi-Wan. 

"Oh, ho," she retorted, "maybe you'd rather dance with him!"

"Maybe I would," he raged. " _He_ didn't pinch me."

Palani strode forward until she was just inches from her prey and almost choked in struggling not to give in to her laughter. "Come here, you little slut."

Obi-Wan drew a deep breath, turned to the perfect stranger sitting at the table with eyes bulging, and said, "Well?"

"Well, what?" asked the bewildered man.

"Are you just going to sit there, and let her call me that?" Obi-Wan demanded, in a perfect imitation of someone in a deep snit.

"I don't . . ."

"Don't what?" Obi-Wan demanded.

"I don't even know you," breathed the stranger.

And Obi-Wan, for all the world like a royal courtesan born and bred to a king's harem, leaned over and, in a voice like liquid heat, murmured directly in the man's ear, "Would you like to?"

The man actually moaned, and rose to his feet, prepared - entirely against his better judgment - to do battle on behalf of this exquisite young tart. And that, of course, was the moment Obi-Wan had awaited. As Arain Fer'mia lifted one single finger to signal his officers to move in on the second of the pair who had snared the Jedi's attention, Obi-Wan's lightsaber was drawn, ignited, and poised at the man's throat before the poor soul even registered that the object of his desires - the luscious little strumpet - had been transformed into a solemn young warrior in less than the twinkling of an eye. At the same time, one tendril of Force energy deactivated the devices secreted in the man's jacket pocket, while a second performed the same service on the target's companion, now in the grip of Fer'mia's hired muscle on the lower level.

And Palani Vau-Bremayne spared a quick moment to be grateful for the fact that the Jedi had things well in hand, because she could no more have withheld the laughter that took her to her knees than she could have given up breathing. 

As a trio of Fer'mia's crewmen - they might as well have had "Security" tattooed on their foreheads - took custody of the captive, he paused for a minute to offer the Jedi a sad smile. "Remember," he said, very softly, "people don't always have choices."

Obi-Wan turned and reached down to haul Palani to her feet, and felt a frisson of unease as he wondered at the meaning of the remark.

Palani kept laughing. 

*************** ******************** ****************

 

The Temple gardens were famed throughout the galaxy, not only for their lush beauty but for the exceptional aura of tranquility that hovered around them. It was said that even non-Force sensitive persons could divine something of the bonds that connected all living things within those dappled walkways.

Though the Room of a Thousand Fountains was certainly the most famed of all the gardens and the most elaborate, it was not the oldest of the gardens, or the most venerated. That honor was reserved for a much smaller bower - one seldom opened to any but the most senior Jedi.

The garden of sighs, it was called, although the name was unofficial. It had been named so just a decade or so earlier when a young apprentice, notorious for flashing blue-green eyes forever speared with a glint of mischief, and an infectious smile, had noted that this garden was the only place within the entire Temple that always made him feel like crying.

Qui-Gon Jinn knelt in silence beneath the silken foliage of an immensely old fringe tree and refused to dwell on the memory of that young individual. The name, after all, was not important. It was the intensity of the Force in this holy place that should be the focus of his attention.

The boy at his side had managed to sit still for almost twenty minutes, but it would not last much longer. The Master was as intimately aware of the itch that plagued the child - under his left shoulder, it seemed - as the boy was. The difference, of course, was that Qui-Gon could have left that itch unscratched for all eternity; the boy was almost at his limit. Just like . . .

Abruptly, the Master rose, foliage of the graceful old tree somehow gripped, even shredded, in his massive hands.

"Master?" Xani moved to relieve the itch, but at least he tried to be surreptitious about it. "Is something wrong?"

Rather than answer the question, Qui-Gon regarded the boy with a smile. "Would you like to visit the salle?" he asked quietly, and was gratified to see the enthusiasm fire in the boy's sapphire eyes.

"But won't you get in trouble?"

The Master clasped his hands on the boy's shoulders. "That isn't your concern. However, it is not disobedient to take you to observe physical training, so long as I do not instruct you myself. You, however, are free to absorb anything you can from your observation."

Xani grinned. "And if I want to try to duplicate some of what I see?"

"Again, so long as I don't involve myself, you are within your rights."

"Master, when do you think the Council will lift their restriction?" The boy strode along beside the Master, almost bouncing with excitement.

Qui-Gon slowed. "Patience, Padawan. And a bit of decorum, if you please. I know it feels awkward for you, but your proper place is one pace to the side and one pace behind me."

Xani frowned and turned to face the tall Master. "Don't you ever find all these petty rules to be restrictive?'

Qui-Gon smiled. "Only a few thousand times a day," he answered.

The boy grinned. "Did _he_ dislike them?"

Qui-Gon actually stumbled. It was, of course, completely unnecessary to ask who _he_ was.

Xani's eyes narrowed, and, if the Master had been looking at him at that moment, he might have been surprised and moderately appalled to note the depth of sheer rage that flared in those cobalt eyes. "You still miss him. Don't you?"

For a moment, it appeared that the Master would not answer, and the fury glowing in the boy's face gradually chilled to an icy, vengeful determination.

"No, Xani. I don't miss him. You fill my life quite adequately. But, he was my responsibility for many years. It is only natural that I should wonder what has become of him, and where he has gone. Jealousy is hardly justified for such a small cause."

But the boy was, apparently, not willing to let the subject drop, as the Master had hoped he would.

"Did you love him?" Xani asked, coming to a full halt before they reached the gate which marked the exit from the garden.

"Xani, I . . ."

The boy took a step closer, and there was no evading the sharp focus of those piercing eyes. "Did - you - love - him?"

The Master stared down into a face now clinched into a frown, and saw, superimposed over that contorted visage, a gentle face, touched with a tiny half-smile, with eyes the color of every ocean he had ever seen.

"No," he said gruffly. "He was my student, not my son."

And abruptly, in his mind, Qui-Gon Jinn was hurled back to that moment that followed Xani's fall from the walkway, that moment when he had stalked forward to confront his Padawan, drawn back a fist, and smashed it into that face - that face. That beautiful, innocent face. That face that had regarded him in total disbelief, that had announced, as clearly as if it had been spoken aloud, _How could you believe me capable of such a thing?_

He had seen it; he had even heard it - within himself. He had simply refused to consider its meaning.

Just as he must refuse to consider it now. The alternative was simply unthinkable. For if he had been wrong; if the Council was right; if the look on that lovely face had spoken truly, then he had . . had . . . No! It could not be, must not be true. He had seen the results of the apprentice's actions; that was all he needed to separate truth from falsehood. The face had simply lied.

Of course, it had. It had, after all, lied to him before. Hadn't it? It must have. For, if not, it could not have spoken so eloquently of its love and devotion through all those long years, and then lied so easily over the ultimate betrayal.

"You're lying to me," said Xani, and the Master was jerked from the reverie that had so enthralled him for these last minutes.

"No, Xani, I . . ."

"You loved him, more than you love me. You did."

Qui-Gon slipped to his knees before the overwrought youngster and enfolded him in a rough embrace. "You will never say such a thing again," he said sternly. "And you will not believe such a lie. You are my future - my legacy. I will never love anyone, as I love you."

The boy allowed himself to be engulfed within those arms, but his eyes were dark with speculation. "What happens," he said softly, "if they never change their minds? They all loved him, you know, and they hate me because I'm not him. What if they never agree to my training?"

Qui-Gon settled back on his feet and studied the boy's face. He saw nothing of guile or subterfuge in that beloved countenance, seeing instead only eagerness and enthusiasm. "They will agree, Xani. They can't afford to waste gifts such as yours, and they'll see that eventually. Until then, we must be patient and find ways of filling our time constructively."

"So," said the boy slowly, "if you perform saber training, with someone else, and I simply observe what you're doing . . ."

Qui-Gon smiled. "Then I can hardly be accused of training you, can I?"

Xani's grin lit up his entire face. "Than what are we waiting for? I want to see you beat the stuffing out of whoever, whether we can call it training or not."

The Master rose, and ran gentle fingers through the boy's curls, and absolutely refused to remember doing the same thing to soft, ginger spikes. "I don't always win, you know, Xani. Saber training isn't always about winning."

"Will I ever be good enough to beat you, Master?" the boy asked as they moved into the corridor.

Qui-Gon smiled."To everything, there is a season, Little One. When the time is right. . ."

"Did _he_ ever beat you?"

Deep motionless shadows rose in the Master's eyes. "Yes. Once or twice."

Xani once more fixed a stern gaze on the Master's face. "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"When you talk about him," said the boy coldly, "your voice goes all soft and far-away. Like you're off somewhere, looking for him."

Qui-Gon forced a broad smile. "I assure you I am entirely present, Little One. Now, would you like to choose a sparring partner for me?" This last was said as they entered the primary training salle.

Xani paused to look around the vast chamber, and quickly noted a group of older Padawans working out together on or near a complicated apparatus of hanging rings and bars. At the heart of the group, a tall slender young man with a shock of dark hair that seemed to defy the restrictions of the padawan haircut was engaged in stretching exercises. Judging from the lack of perspiration evident on his clothing, he had not yet engaged in a strenuous routine.

Xani was quick to conceal a small smile; he knew that face. Knew it from his brushes with Obi-Wan's mind.

Garen Muln - friend, confidante and creche mate of Obi-Wan Kenobi. This, thought the young Telosian, might prove interesting.

"That one," he said firmly, indicating Garen with a nod of his head.

Qui-Gon Jinn turned to study Xani's face again, looking for any indication that the boy might know the history of this particular padawan. There was, of course, nothing to see.

"That one might not be amenable to sparring with me," Qui-Gon remarked softly.

But Xani was determined. "You're a Jedi Master. Is he allowed to refuse you?"

The Master smiled. "Xani, this isn't a prison camp, and very few things here are compulsory, including obeying the whims of a Jedi Master who happens not to be your own."

"And if he is your own?"

Qui-Gon laughed softly. "Then it becomes compulsory."

"But it wasn't, for him. Was it? He disobeyed you. Didn't he?"

"Yes." There was a world of bitterness in that single syllable, and Xani was forced, once more, to conceal his satisfaction. With every word, the wedge driven between the Master and his former apprentice grew larger.

"I never will."

"I know."

"So, are you going to ask him? I'd really like to see you spar with him."

Qui-Gon stifled a sigh, much to Xani's pleasure, and directed the boy to a seat on the sidelines of the training area before walking forward to greet Padawan Muln, who had, of course, seen him coming from some distance away.

The padawan bowed slightly as Qui-Gon approached, but his eyes, wary, watchful, and filled with suspicion, never wavered. "Master Jinn," he said slowly, and waited.

"Padawan Muln, I am seeking a partner for a sparring match. Are you available?"

Garen's smile was bleak. "You want to spar, with me?"

"If you are agreeable?"

The padawan grabbed a towel from a nearby rack and draped it around his neck. "I have a previous engagement. Sorry."

"May I ask . . ."

"No, Master Jinn. You may not."

Anger moved in Qui-Gon's eyes. "You forget yourself, Padawan. You will maintain a civil manner."

Garen stood motionless, but he did not back down. "A civil manner, huh. Very well. I believe I am behaving appropriately, Master Jinn. If you disagree, you may report me to my Master, or to the Council, or to the Republic's minister of protocol, for that matter. I frankly don't care, just as I don't care to spar with you. Your sparring partner - by my estimation - is probably somewhere out on the outer rim by now, looking for an honorable way of getting himself killed. That's what he's going to do, you know. If he can't give his life to being a Jedi, he's going to find something else to give it to. Something that probably won't take quite as long."

"Don't be foolish," snapped the Master. "He'll do no such thing."

Garen stepped closer and studied the Master's expression, trying to delve beneath the calm surface of those midnight eyes. Finally, he stepped back and, when he spoke again, his voice sounded hollow and lost. "You really never knew him at all, did you? All those years, and you couldn't see him well enough to figure out what he'll do now. What all of us - _all of us_ , Master - have known all along. Without an honorable cause to serve, he'd just curl up and die. That's what Obi is; it's what he does. Just existing, just looking out for himself - that'll never be enough for him. Hopefully, he's found a reason to go on living. Because, if he hasn't, he's just marking time, until he finds a way."

The young man turned to depart, before looking back to fix the Master with a heavy, desolate gaze. "You should have just taken your saber to him. It would have been kinder."

And he moved away, pausing beneath an intricate arrangement of rings and bars and platforms, and taking a deep breath before reaching for his first handhold as he launched into an eleventh-level kata, incorporating a wealth of gymnastic exercises along with basic defensive maneuvers. His initial movements were not as smooth as they should have been, as he struggled to release the anger within him, to let it go into the Force. As he progressed level to level, ever higher, he sought to forget the confrontation, and even the identity of the Jedi Master standing below him.

Qui-Gon Jinn simply stood and watched him go and tried to suppress the echo of his parting words.

It was not like that; it could not be like that. He would not accept that there was any truth in what the boy had said.

It was just jealousy. Xani had pegged it correctly, all along. Because they all seemed to be smitten with _him_ , they could not stand to see someone else move into his place, no matter how deservedly.

He walked back to collect Xani, deep in thought. He would call on Mace Windu, who owed him a ton of favors, and ask for a sparring match. The Council member could not take offense at such an innocuous request, and Xani would benefit from witnessing a duel between two of the Order's very best.

Yes, that was what . . .

A sudden disturbance in the Force gripped him, and he felt a nauseating wrench as he spun to find its source, just in time to see Padawan Muln plunge the final two meters of his head-first fall from somewhere near the ceiling of the salle. Just in time to see him fall, but not in time to stop him or to catch him.

There was a horrible, sickening thunk, and Garen lay perfectly still, torso twisted unnaturally as a pool of bright scarlet spread beneath his head.

"Oh, Force!" cried the Master, breaking out of his temporary paralysis and running toward the fallen apprentice. "Get the healers up here. Now."

A dozen padawans ran to do his bidding, their fear and horror huge in their eyes.

Qui-Gon knelt at the boy's side, and reached out with the Force, seeking the unmistakable warmth of life.

Seeking - seeking . . .

Near the doorway, Xani, only son of the Prince of Telos, stood in complete silence, eyes closed, face frozen. The voices within him were leaving him now; for the moment, he had no further need of them. But they would return, when he called them.

His eyes fluttered and opened and registered the pandemonium before him. He said nothing and maintained his detachment.

As a good Jedi should. As a good padawan should.

Someone would figure it out, sooner or later. It might take a while, but they'd understand eventually, that any defense of Obi-Wan Kenobi was simply a very bad idea.

 

************* *********************** ****************

 

The apartment that housed Arain Fer'mia was exactly as expected: large, luxurious and well-stocked with a fine selection of provisions. Including Alderaanian brandy.

Obi-Wan, however, was no longer interested in getting drunk, or pretending to get drunk. He was, therefore, simply toying with the snifter of aromatic liquid, as he awaited the return of the Captain. 

Seated across from him, and regarding him with the attentive stare of a hungry malia for a tender goatl, sat Jebbitz. His new bodyguard. Courtesy of Captain Fer'mia, much to the young Jedi's displeasure.

Fer'mia and Palani had apparently put their heads together and come up with the brilliant conclusion that the one sure way to protect Obi-Wan from the licentious attentions of his own crew was to co-opt the largest member of that crew, and charge him with the responsibility for keeping the young Jedi safe.

"You want some brandy, Jeb?" he asked, willing to try anything to escape that unblinking gaze.

"No."

"Oh, come on. It'll help you relax."

"Can't relax, Kid. Gotta stand guard."

"Jeb," he said, trying a different tack. "I'm a Jedi, you know. I really don't need to be guarded."

Jeb leaned forward, his eyes raking over the young man's torso. "I know you're a Jedi, but you're something else, first."

"Like what?" Obi-Wan took another sip of brandy.

"Like a wet dream for some of these guys. Big guys. Big, bad guys. They could hurt you, Obi. They could hurt you real bad, and they'd enjoy it."

The young Jedi sighed. "Unless I'm mistaken, you were recently counted among that number."

Jeb smiled. "Yeah, but I just wanted to dance with you. I wouldn't really hurt you, Obi. I wouldn't."

Obi-Wan heard something in that rough voice, something that he had heard earlier, and stared at the hulking Corellian intensely. "Jeb," he said gently, "would it bother you if I took a look into your thoughts? It won't hurt. I promise."

Jeb laughed. "You want to look in _my_ thoughts, Li'l Obi? Whatever for?"

"If you'd rather not . . ."

"No. No. It's OK. Just don't . . ."

And Obi-Wan felt it then, as he just barely skimmed the surface of the man's mind with the thinnest tendril of Force energy. Jeb was truly a gentle giant, and he truly would not have knowingly harmed Obi-Wan - or anyone else. The only problem with that was that Jeb had no idea how much harm he could cause unknowingly. 

The huge man's mind was basically that of a child, if a very well-developed child.

"Can I ask you a personal question, Jeb?"

The Corellian frowned. "Why would you have to? Didn't you just . . ."

Obi-Wan smiled. "I just took a quick peek, but it would be rude for me to sift through your thoughts without asking."

Jeb still looked confused, but he smiled anyway. "Ask your question."

"You're not Drimulan, so what are you doing here?"

Pale, blurry eyes regarded the young Jedi wistfully as the gentle giant sought the right words to express the thoughts that came so slowly to him. Finally, he reached forward and touched Obi-Wan's hand. "You do everything good," he said. "Right?"

The Jedi smiled. "Not everything, as my Mas . . . No. Not everything."

"OK. Just most everything. Right?"

Obi-Wan just shrugged.

The hulking Corellian examined the palms of rough, somewhat spatulate hands. "Not me. I don't do things good. Most things. But I do two things OK. I can fix things, mechanical things. And I can fight."

The Jedi nodded. "But there are lots of places you could apply those skills, Jeb. Places where you don't have to take your life in your hands every time you go to work."

Jeb rose and went to stare out into the spangled night. "I was raised in an orphanage. I wasn't ever very good at makin' friends, but I made one. The best friend I ever had. His name was Daval, and his parents were killed in a shipwreck out on the rim somewhere. He was Drimulan."

"What happened to him?" Obi-Wan prompted, his voice very gentle.

"He was older than me, by a few months," said the Corellian, "and, when he came of age, he was determined to go home, to search for any family he might have left."

A single tear traced a path down that craggy face. "Daval wasn't very big, and he was born with a twisted spine that the healers could never quite fix. I guess that's why we were such good friends; he had a crippled body, and I have a crippled mind." He smiled when he caught the wince on Obi-Wan's face. "It's OK, Obi. It don't bother me none. Daval took care of thinkin' for me, and I took care of walkin' for him, so it didn't matter so much that he never could walk straight. The Tripos didn't care though. It don't take much physical strength to work the machinery in the mines." He turned to look at Obi-Wan with desolation in his eyes. "He only lived a few weeks. By the time I got here, he'd been dead for two months."

Obi-Wan rose and moved to stand beside the hulking young man, and laid a comforting hand on the massive shoulder. "Jeb, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

Jeb patted the hand awkwardly. "Ain't that what friends do? Learn about each other's lives?"

The young Jedi was startled into a broad grin. "You know, Jeb," he said gently, "I think your mind works just fine."

A delicate chime at the door announced the arrival of Arain Fer'mia and his staff officers as Jebbitz moved to take up a place in the shadows beyond the terrace door. These were all members of Fer'mia's inner circle arriving now, and the big Corellian knew, intellectually, that they posed no threat to the young Jedi, but he also knew, instinctively, that assumptions could prove deadly in the business of protecting his charge. And, he had decided, he quite liked the young man for whom he had been made responsible; he would therefore be doubly vigilant and trust no one.

"Well?" said Obi-Wan, rising to greet them.

"As expected," replied Palani. "They were going to try to track our incoming transmissions, to discover where the Resistance is broadcasting from, and who they are, of course. They'd just joined the crew of the _Dark Specter_ a few days ago."

Fer'mia tossed a crumpled poster into the Jedi's hands. A wanted poster, with a twist. The familiar likeness of the Ghost was depicted, as always, but there was a separate section, showing only a vague outline with a question mark imposed atop the image.

The amount of the reward for Fer'mia had grown considerably over recent months, and now there was an additional hundred thousand credits for information leading to the apprehension of "the traitors and saboteurs guilty of providing aid, comfort and information to the enemies of the government of Drimula."

"You should have let me talk to them," said Obi-Wan, his eyes locking with those of the Captain.

"Unnecessary," answered Fer'mia. "We got what we needed. They were set to follow us back here, and the equipment they were carrying, along with the rest that was stored in their skimmer, would probably have been sufficient to decrypt and trace our comm signals, even with full shielding. Very sophisticated, and very expensive."

"I could've gotten more," insisted the Jedi. "Why wouldn't you let me?"

The Captain turned his attention to the young man, and, for the first time, Obi-Wan sensed what it would be like to face the wrath of this commander of men. "It was my call," Fer'mia said coldly, "and I made it. Now drop it."

"Can I speak with them tomorrow?"

"No."

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to argue - his had not been a military upbringing after all - when Palani interrupted their discussion. "Here comes the signal. Right on time."

"Privacy mode," said the Captain, and Obi-Wan felt the descent of heavy shielding all around them. It was as if they had been cut off from Haven completely, and placed inside a buffer zone of silence.

A holovid platform flared and sparked briefly, indicative probably of attempts by someone near the source to jam the incoming signal, before a dark silhouette appeared on the grid, heavily cloaked and steeped in shadow.

"Rain, are you there?"

"Here, Jhevaghn."

"Who's that with you?"

"Our new recruit."

The flare of her temper was visible even through the sputtering connection. "You're letting a rookie sit in on this? Have you gone space-happy?"

"It's okay," said the Captain quickly. "He's not a risk."

"Not to you," said the woman.

"Miss, I assure you . . ." Obi-Wan said gently.

"Just shut up," she interrupted. "I don't have time for this. He could be here any minute. They know we've got a transmitter; they just haven't figured out where. So just shut up and listen."

"Go ahead," said Palani. "We're listening."

"They've set up a meet with Nanza. Three days from now, at Moroon's Casino on Twingira's second moon. That's where they'll make the arrangements for the final drop. Borgan's agreed to pay full price, and he'll have a bank chip for the transfer. They've ordered 100,000 in the first shipment. Rain, you have to stop it. We can't let them complete delivery."

"I know, Hon, but I need more. I need to know where and when."

Jhevaghn Fer'mia removed the cape that obscured her face, and Obi-Wan Kenobi gasped softly. It was the same face he had last seen in the morning light of a soup kitchen on Coruscant - the face of Jarielle Fer'mia.

The Captain smiled. "Jhevaghn is my cousin, Obi-Wan. The daughter of my father's brother."

The woman huffed impatiently. "I don't have time for social niceties, Rain. I can't get you any more information. You're going to have to get it yourself. He's keeping everything really tight on this one. I'm beginning to wonder if he suspects. He's not taking me with him on the trip."

Arain Fer'mia rose and began to pace. "Then we'll have to get in from the other side. Do we know anything at all about Nanza?"

"It's a Hutt," spat Palani. "What else do you need to know?"

Jhevaghn suddenly looked toward Obi-Wan, and he saw a mocking smile rise in those familiar gray eyes. "Well, actually, I do know one thing, that might come in handy. Nanza likes its human slaves - really, really likes them. If you know what I mean. It came here during the first negotiations, and brought an entourage with it."

"So? They all like human slaves." That was Quebal, obviously growing impatient.

"Yes," she agreed, "but most of them like girls. Not Nanza. It likes boys - young, virile, beautiful boys. Which is, of course, one reason I'm being left behind. No good as a bribe, and he'll be otherwise occupied. Thank the gods for small favors, hum?"

"Jhe . . ."

"Someone's coming," she hissed. "Don't let me down, Rain. If they succeed here, well, you know what will happen."

And she was gone.

Obi-Wan turned his gaze to Fer'mia, and there was no evading the demand in those blue green eyes. "I think you better start at the beginning," said the young Jedi, and the Captain grinned. It seemed he wasn't the only one who could compel a response when he chose to do so.

"I'll do better than that, my friend. I'll show you. Tomorrow. It's late, and we're all beat. Tomorrow morning, I'll answer all your questions. Tonight, we all need a good night's sleep."

Obi-Wan was obviously not thrilled with the delay. "Two questions," he said abruptly, "and I'll agree to your schedule."

"Fire away," said the Captain, slouching back against the deep cushions of the couch. He appeared perfectly serene, but there was a flare of uncertainty in his eyes.

"How does she know?" said the Jedi, wondering if Fer'mia would feign ignorance.

He didn't, but he heaved a hefty sigh, wishing that the boy had left this one particular question til later. Still, he might as well lay it all out now.

"The commander of the Drimulan government forces is General Brath Ozvay. He's Pymelian, academy trained, and tactically brilliant. He's also brutal, cruel, and a sadistic bastard who considers himself quite a lady's man."

Obi-Wan said nothing, but his eyes never wavered from the Captain's face. "My cousin," said Fer'mia, not quite able to still the tremor in his voice, "is his Drimulan mistress."

The young Jedi closed his eyes abruptly, his mind awash with the lash of Fer'mia's pain. "I'm sorry," he said gently, his automatic impulse to send soothing Force energy into a consciousness so filled with torment. But he realized immediately that his impulse would serve no purpose; Fer'mia was one of those people who were genuinely, completely Force-blind.

"Save your pity," snapped the Captain. "She does what she must, to save our people. What's your second question?"

Obi-Wan looked up, and once more projected an air of calm purpose. "The two men we captured."

"Yes?"

"They're dead, aren't they?"

Fer'mia looked deep into those sea-change eyes. "Yes. They're dead. They broke our laws, and they paid for it."

"But you don't know . . . "

"I know all I needed to know," the Drimulan said firmly. "Their reasons change nothing. This is not the Jedi Temple, my young friend, where people have the luxury to consider things like motivation and cause. This is a dirty little war, where survival is the only imperative. Had they succeeded in what they were trying to do, hundreds - maybe even thousands - would have died, or worse. I won't apologize because you think our laws are barbaric and flawed."

For a moment, Obi-Wan almost seemed to stop breathing. Then he simply nodded, and rose to depart. 

"Is that it?" asked Fer'mia. "No comments or criticisms? No arguments?"

The young Jedi paused. "You obviously have no need of my input. You have your way of doing things, and you seem content with it. If it's not also my way, that's my problem. Isn't it?"

"My way," replied the Drimulan, "keeps us alive."

Obi-Wan nodded, but his eyes were pools of bitterness. "There are worse things," he said, "than dying. I'm honor-bound to tell you that I won't abide by these rules, Captain. I can't. It betrays everything I have ever been taught."

Fer'mia stood and moved to stand toe-to-toe with the young man. "Then you put yourself - and all of us - at risk."

Obi-Wan smiled. "I suppose you could just kill me now," he said softly.

"You know I can't do that," replied the Drimulan. "You know I need you too much to do that."

"Then you better get used to my 'differences', Captain. You may, however, be certain of one thing. I will _never_ endanger you, your ship, or your forces. And if I choose to endanger myself, that is no concern of yours."

Fer'mia allowed himself a small snort of laughter. "You can't possibly really believe that."

"Yes, I can," replied the Jedi, "and so should you. My welfare is my own business, and I am perfectly capable of seeing to it."

Finally, the Drimulan nodded and allowed a spark of amusement to flare in his eyes.

"What?" asked Obi-Wan, suddenly (justifiably) suspicious.

"Just wondering."

"Wondering what?"

Fer'mia winked. "How fetching you'll look in pink satin, and whether or not you'll accept our 'concern for your welfare' when you're strutting around in Nanza's seraglio, wearing nothing but a veil and a smile."

Obi-Wan drew himself to his full height, and observed the Captain with his best expression of knightly scorn. "Jedi," he intoned, "do not wear pink and do not strut."

Fer'mia laughed outright. "And, as you're so fond of pointing out, you're no longer Jedi."

With ears flushing a lovely shade of the color that "Jedi do not wear", the young man made his departure, his oversized shadow at his side.

When he was gone, Arain Fer'mia exchanged glances with his remaining command staff, each of them gripped with a formless sense of dread.

It was, finally, Solitaire who put it in words. "You do know what's going on in his head, don't you?"

Fer'mia sighed. "I do."

The Weapons Master nodded. "Then you better face the fact that there's very little any of us are going to be able to do to protect him from his own death wish. If he really wants to die, he'll find a way."

 

********************** *************** *****************

_He was sitting once more on the sculpted sand, the music of the surf soothing him and calling to him. Teasing him with a pseudo-memory of warm, silky waters sliding over his febrile body, and gentle fingers tracing patterns on his bare chest._

_The moonlight was almost liquid, almost a physical sensation against his skin._

_He sensed the movement nearby, although he saw nothing. And when those soft, moist lips once more claimed his own, he simply closed his eyes and savored the sweetness of the touch._

_"Who are you?" he asked, hardly daring to breathe._

_"She who awaits you."_

_He smiled. "I don't care much for riddles."_

_He felt, rather than saw the smile that touched those sensual lips. "In time, you will know."_

_"I'm coming to you tomorrow."_

_A gentle sigh. "You cannot come to me now. The gate is closed."_

_"Then how do you . . ."_

_"Only in your dreams, Love. For now."_

_"I want . ." He paused, confused now. "I think I want to come to you."_

_Another brush of soft lips. "You are so alone, Obi-Wan. So very alone. I hurt for your loneliness."_

_"Then let me come to you."_

_He opened his eyes abruptly, and saw a graceful shimmer of light, not quite without form, but surely without substance._

_"Please." He was somehow unbothered by the fact that he was begging._

_"This plane . . ." the voice was pale and regretful,"is not meant for you, Love. You cannot exist here."_

_Something deep inside him seemed to give way, and he felt a bone-deep ache of loneliness, as if some part of his soul had been severed and removed from his body._

_"I need . . ."_

_"Shh, my love. I know. I know."_

_He leaned forward, reaching for the pale specter, but finding only the night wind against his hands._

_"You must bring them here soon, Obi." The voice was louder now, more insistent. "Before it's too late. Before you no longer can."_

_"Bring who? Who do you want? And why can't I come to you?"_

_"You cannot survive here. But you must bring them soon."_

_He closed his eyes again, and felt the surf reach for him. "I need." He knew there was no point in explaining what he needed. She already knew._

_"Love you, Obi. Waiting for you, always."_

_"Then let me . . "_

_"No. You must bring them, while you still can."_

 

************* ********************** *****************

A pale bar of light fell across the face of the sleeping Jedi, and a hulking figure concealed within the shadows of the room stirred slightly. Jebbitz had waited until Obi-Wan had fallen asleep before taking up his post, in the certain knowledge that the former Jedi would not be thrilled with the idea of having a bodyguard standing watch in his bedroom.

The young man made a lovely picture framed by the moonlight, and Jebbitz leaned forward slightly, studying that sculpted face. Then he seemed to reach some silent decision and moved quickly away, leaving his charge to enjoy some measure of privacy. It was not right, the Corellian had suddenly realized, to stand and watch him as he slept, or to wonder about the trail of tears that traced that soft young face.

*********************** ******************** ***************  
tbc


	18. All That Charms

Chapter 18: All That Charms

_Joy is the sweet voice, joy the luminous cloud,_  
_We in ourselves rejoice!_  
_And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,_  
_All melodies the echoes of that voice,_  
_All colours a suffusion from that light._

\---- Samuel Taylor Coleridge - _Dejection, An Ode_

 

When a pearlescent drift of mist wafted through the terrace door and caressed his face, Obi-Wan rolled into a luxurious stretch, and, for just a moment, felt the silken texture of his dreams superimposed over the tapestry of reality. He knew, without thought, that he had spent the night nestled in the comfort of the vast bed in his quarters, but knew as well that some fragment of his dream had nestled there with him, had held him and stroked him and whispered to him as he slept. Had offered a tranquil solace that he had not realized he needed so badly.

The last whisper lingered in his mind, as he opened his eyes. _I am with you always - til the end of time._

He rose and padded out to the terrace and found Haven in that curious moment of suspension that lulls the senses in the last moments prior to sunrise. Everything was still and lush and veiled with soft vapor, and incredibly, poignantly lovely. He stood at the edge of the balcony and closed his eyes, allowing the sounds and fragrances of morning to flow over him, to trail cool air currents across his bare chest, and he found that he could - almost - see her. She was still a pale shadow, but not so pale as before.

"I'm not dreaming now," he murmured, and his breath seemed to freeze in his throat as he heard a lyric of pale laughter, and - almost - felt soft fingertips against his temple.

Now it was his turn to laugh, very softly. "You're growing stronger, aren't you? You're no longer limited to my dreams."

Once more, there was that sweet lilt of amusement, which ceased abruptly when he became aware of a heavy step behind him.

"Talkin' to yourself, Boss?" asked Jebbitz, eyes not quite concealing a flare of alarm.

Obi-Wan smiled. "I'm not your boss, Jeb, and I often talk to myself. It's a Jedi thing."

"Humph. I always heard it was a crazy thing."

Now the young Jedi chuckled outright. "That, too. Have you been here all night?"

The huge Corellian frowned. "Where else would I be? I can't guard you if I'm not here."

"Jeb," Obi-Wan said, very reasonably, he thought, "I think you're taking Captain Fer'mia's orders a bit too literally. I don't require a full-time bodyguard."

"Umm, hmm," agreed Jeb, his eyes sweeping the space around the terrace, obviously alert for any potential threat.

"Really," said the young Jedi, determined to make himself understood. "If there was something around, something dangerous, I'd know it."

Jebbitz merely stared at him, with no notable emotional response.

"OK?" Obi-Wan was nothing if not persistent.

The Corellian nodded, and continued his visual exploration of their surroundings.

Obi-Wan sighed. "You're ignoring me, aren't you?"

Again, the Corellian nodded, but, at least, this time, he did so with a slightly scapegrace smile, and deigned to explain himself. "Sorry, Obi, but I take my orders from the Cap'n. When he tells me it's OK to ease off, I will."

"Jeb," said Obi, allowing himself a small huff of exasperation, "have you ever seen a Jedi before?"

"No."

"Do you understand that I could probably kill you, right here, right now, before you'd even know anything was happening?"

"No."

"I take it that means you don't believe me?"

The big Corellian shook his head. "Makes no difference."

"Meaning?"

"I'm not the one you need to worry about."

"But . . ."

"Jedi die, sometimes. Don't they?"

Obi-Wan sighed. "Sometimes, yes."

Jebbitz smiled, as if he had just scored a winning point. "Until they don't, or until the Cap'n says so, I make sure you stay alive."

Finally, helplessly, Obi-Wan laughed. "OK, my friend. But we better go find you some breakfast. If you're going to keep up with me, you're going to need it."

While Obi-Wan showered and dressed, Jebbitz stepped into the corridor outside the Jedi's quarters and activated his comm badge.

Arain Fer'mia was not a late riser, and his response was crisp and immediate.

"Any problems, Jeb?"

The big Corellian smiled. "None I couldn't handle."

"Um, hmm. And how many did you have to handle?"

"Just three. Batzo and his two idiot buddies. They're locked up down in the janitor's closet."

"How close?"

"Never even cleared the door."

The Captain chuckled softly. "Remind me again why we keep that little bastard around."

Always inclined to be completely literal, Jebbitz answered the rhetorical question. "Because he's the only member of the crew small enough to get into the hyperdrive coupling housings."

Fer'mia laughed again. "And our young friend. Does he know?"

"Naw, he's too busy telling me he doesn't need me."

"Anything else?"

"Well . . ."

The captain heard the hesitancy in the Corellian's voice. "What?"

"It's probably nothing, Cap'n. And it's kinda a private thing - for him."

"Go on."

"He talks in his sleep."

There was a pause before Fer'mia replied, and there was no mistaking the icy chill in his voice. "You watched him sleep?"

"No. At least, not for long. I was just makin' sure he was OK."

The Captain was silent for several moments, blatantly torn between asking - and not asking. When he decided, it was obviously not easy for him. "What did he say?"

"Mostly just bits and pieces, scraps of sentences. But there was a name. At least, I think it was a name."

"What name?"

"Saischel," replied Jebbitz. "He repeated it a lot."

"What else?"

"Just . . ."

Fer'mia sighed. "You might as well spit it out, Jeb. We've already pretty much screwed him over as far as his privacy is concerned."

"He kept asking the same question, over and over. 'How could you?'"

Arain Fer'mia rubbed weary eyes with the back of his hand. He had known it wouldn't be easy for the young Jedi; he had not known it would be this hard.

"Bring him down for breakfast," he said finally, then paused abruptly, as inspiration reached out and grabbed him. "Yes, by all means, bring him down here. And don't let him dawdle."

Jebbitz looked decidedly puzzled. "Cap'n, I don't think he's big on dawdling."

"No, of course he's not," laughed Fer'mia. "Jedi certainly wouldn't dawdle, would they? Just bring him."

Jebbitz simply stood for a moment and stared at the comm badge, wondering. No matter how pretty or likeable or filled with confidence Obi-Wan might be, the Corellian was pretty much convinced that the young man was - just slightly - nuts. And now the Cap'n was acting strangely.

The Corellian re-entered the Jedi's quarters, wondering if mental incapacity could possibly be contagious, and wondering if he had anything to worry about.

 

**************** ********************** ********************

The Arimosia Valley spread out below the sprawling compound carved into the side of a heavily forested ridge, its far reaches lost in drifts of morning fog. At this altitude and in this hemisphere, Drimula was still an exquisitely beautiful world, lush, primitive, virginal, and rampant with an incredible variety of life forms. 

It would not, of course, remain so forever, but, for the moment, this sanctuary served its purpose; it provided a zone of safety and comfort and esthetic elegance from which the governors could maintain control of the governed, without actually having to lower themselves to mingle with the masses of the great unwashed.

The huge compound, designated 'City Prime' by the Drimulan military but known colloquially as Masca Regour, was not particularly pleasing in an architectural sense, although a keen observer might have noted that the builder, at least, had had the good sense to avoid fripperies and gawdy embellishments, allowing its lines and angles to remain clean and sharp. It was composed of a series of block-shaped wings, brilliant white and red-roofed, interconnected by covered walkways that wandered up and down and across various elevations of the ridge to which it clung. It also extended several hundred meters into the side of the ridge, as well as down toward the valley. The subterranean area thus made it much larger than it at first appeared. The upper reaches, open to the crystal pure air still common at this remote location, were reserved for senior government officials and their families, executive officers of the mining consortium that was the true power behind the government figureheads, and the most elite military officers.

Like General Brath Ozvey, Commander in Chief of the Army of the Drimulan Triumvirate Republic - a flagrant misnomer in that the members of the Army were comprised, almost completely, of non-Drimulan mercenaries, and the government of the planet had not actually been a republic in many decades. Still the old forms remained, along with the old name, and nobody cared enough - or was brave enough - to challenge it.

Ozvey's quarters were spacious, almost palatial, and surrounded on three sides by a covered terrace with a spectacular view of the valley below. The general, in addition to being a self-proclaimed sensualist, was also something of a mystic - unusual in a military leader - and a great believer in what he called 'arranged ambiance'. Thus his quarters and the surrounding terrace were designed to provide mental and spiritual balance, as well as the serenity necessary to allow him to devote his considerable mental powers to matters of military and/or political strategy.

The general had very specific ideas about the order of his day, and his day always began with a modest breakfast, served and consumed in complete silence, as he looked over his first batch of communiqués of the day, and reveled in the aroma and warmth of Drimulan klaffee - one of the extremely few things native to this world that he found worthy of preservation.

This morning, his day was already ruined, as he was confronted very early, as the sun's first rays bored into the mists of the valley, with not one, but two visitors, neither of whom seemed to appreciate or understand a preference for silence.

Fahd Borgan was a short, ridiculously obese Rhodian, the Chief Financial Officer for Offworld Mining Corporation, as well as the official representative of the huge, incredibly wealthy and diversified Multi-System Consortium. The rank and file simply called him "The Money Man", although they were careful not to do so within his hearing. Borgan, somehow, fancied himself something of a swashbuckler, a 'robber baron' in the manner of those rugged entrepreneurs who had originally explored and opened routes to the Outer Rim. He was, in truth, a petty, narrow-minded, greedy little cretin, for whom Brath Ozvey had nothing but contempt. But the general was nothing if not politically astute and had learned, early in life, how to keep his opinions to himself. Though he occasionally allowed himself the luxury of imagining how it would feel to grab the grubby little greaseball and gut him like a gaping fish.

Borgan was, as Borgan always was, lecturing about finances.

The general sipped his klaffee and turned his gaze toward the second of his visitors, who, he had to admit, was considerably easier to look at.

His gaze was met with one equally bold and assessing, from eyes as blue as Corellian sapphires.

The Princess of Telos - and yes, she actually insisted on being introduced by that title - wore white this morning, but there was absolutely nothing virginal about either the dress, or the body within it. Low-cut, form-fitted, hand embroidered with jewel-toned silk threads, and beaded with Calamarian pearls, the gown was a sensual feast for the eyes, and did nothing to discourage examination of the body within it. There was only one item of her appearance that seemed, somehow, not quite in character; her hair was tucked up under a wide-brimmed hat to which she had attached a silky veil which she had draped, fetchingly to be sure, across her face. Fetchingly, suggesting perhaps a trace of modesty? The general would have bet a substantial portion of his monthly wages that modesty was definitely not Dr. Aji's customary style. So why the camouflage? Camouflage? Now that was definitely an interesting term. Camouflaging what? Was that - could it possibly be - the shadow of a bruise on that perfectly made-up throat, just beneath the chin? Or was it no more than a trick of light? 

Ozvey was extremely careful not to stare, looking away before the subject of his scrutiny became too obvious.

For her part, N'vell's appraisal of the general reinforced her initial impressions of him, when he had been chosen to lead the army of mercenaries almost a decade earlier. Strong, intelligent, arrogant, dispassionate, efficient - and brutal. Totally lacking in the so-called liberal virtues, like compassion and empathy and selflessness. Definitely a man after her own heart.

And a splendid physical specimen in the bargain. Tall, broad of shoulder and narrow of hip, a crest of silvered hair, a proud face centering on ice-blue eyes which, at the moment, were trying with only marginal success, to conceal a trace of disgust as he looked down at the breakfast being served to the extremely verbal Rhodian.

N'Vell smiled as he once more met her eyes, and received a similar smile in return. It was vaguely reminiscent of the circling of two predators.

Borgan had apparently talked himself quite out of breath, as he paused for a moment, and the Princess stepped into the gap. "Oh, Fahd, do shut-up. We know it's going to be expensive. But well worth it, I'd say, if it strikes a big blow against the resistance."

"But the resistance hasn't really been that effective," argued the Rhodian. "Have they?"

Her eyes narrowed. "In four different attacks in the last two months, they've scuttled five of our droneships and cost us millions, not only in lost ore, but in reparations we've had to pay out for delivery delays, lost wages, and contract penalties. I'd say that's significant."

"Well, of course, but compared to the profits generated in the same time frame, it's really quite negligible."

N'Vell's eyes glittered strangely as she turned to regard him, choosing her words with care. "They may be no more than a loose end, but I don't like loose ends. And they seem to have acquired a new recruit, one who interests me greatly."

Brath Ozvey, hearing something in her voice that sparked his interest, leaned forward. "And this new recruit would be . .?"

She smiled. "In good time, General. I can assure you that you will be given everything you need to move against a potential new threat. All in good time."

Ice blue eyes, with no hint of humor within them, locked with darker blue. "I don't like secrets, Milady."

"Nor do I, General," she replied coolly, "but there have been some problems concerning - how shall I put it? - the security of information in your office. I choose to keep certain things to myself, until that problem has been addressed. Since you haven't mentioned it, I assume you still haven't located your phantom communications unit."

In lieu of a response, he drained his klaffee cup, then held it up to be refilled. He didn't bother to check to see if someone would be there to perform the refill; he knew it was not necessary.

N'Vell, however, did look up, and encountered the diffident gaze of a pair of exquisitely lovely rain-gray eyes, set in a porcelain face of equal loveliness.

"My, my, General," she remarked, continuing her visual appraisal, "you certainly have marvelous taste. Who is this luminous creature?"

Ozvey merely snapped his fingers and gestured for the woman to kneel.

"I am called Jhevaghn, Milady," she said softly, eyes lowered respectfully.

N'Vell reached out and grasped the young woman's chin in order to turn her face for a more complete inspection. Jhevaghn was acquiescent, superficially, at least. And if, deep inside, she was castigating the Telosian princess as seven kinds of a street whore, well - that was something else entirely.

However, N'Vell Aji was not only Telosian; she was the sister of one of the most Force-gifted students ever to attend the Jedi Temple. Her eyes narrowed abruptly, as she sensed a quite creditable - and incredible - amount of mental shielding, in a slave who should have had none.

Still, she said nothing as she dropped her hand and gestured for the slave to go on about her business. "Quite remarkable," she said, as if discussing a breed of nerf, "for a Drimulan. Does she perform adequately?"

"She does," replied the General, a sly smile curling his lips, knowing full well that the princess was not interested in the girl's housekeeping skills. He reached out and clasped Jhevaghn's wrist and pulled her to stand behind him, her body pressed against his back. "Would Milady care for a - demonstration?"

He heard the tiny gasp that escaped Jhevaghn's lips, and assumed - rightly - that she knew she would be punished later for such a lapse, but he let it pass for the moment as he observed N'Vell's reaction. 

Temptation - oh, yes. She was definitely tempted, and the General suppressed a smile. He had survived almost seven decades of life, in an existence that might have ended precipitously many, many times; he had done it by strict observance of a small set of cardinal rules. The first among them was deceptively simple: know all there is to know about the people you must deal with - friend or foe. One never knew when a bit of information might prove vital to survival. Like the fact, just confirmed, that the Princess of Telos had a voracious sexual appetite, and was not particular about the gender - or willingness - of her partner.

"Later, perhaps," said N'Vell, fully aware of his thoughts, and driven to a grudging respect for the man's mental processes.

"You are dismissed," said the Princess suddenly, and Jhevaghn suppressed a small quiver of unease as she departed.

Brath Ozvey could not - quite - conceal his displeasure. His servants, particularly this servant, took orders from no one but him. Ever.

N'Vell ignored his obvious irritation. "You've had no luck routing out your spies, have you?"

"Not yet," he admitted. "But we will."

She appeared to be staring off into the distance. "What makes you think so?"

He chuckled softly. "You people are the ones who believe that money can buy anything, aren't you? We just decided to put that belief to the test. As it happens, we have something in the works that just might pan out for us."

She was thoughtful for a moment, before deciding that he might need to know more than she had told him. "There's a complication," she said slowly, "if you're trying to infiltrate their ranks."

"What kind of complication?"

She smiled coldly. "The worst kind."

He allowed himself a small grimace. "Jedi."

"Exactly."

"Who?"

But she leaned back in her chair and observed him with cool reserve. "That, I'm not ready to reveal. When you need to know, you will."

He nodded. "You're correct. It is a complication, but not necessarily a fatal one. We'll hope for the best."

Now her gaze grew speculative. "Continue with your plans, General, but I just might have a better idea. If you're willing to play along. I think we must assume that the resistance has found out about our little arrangement with Nanza and . . . "

"Impossible!" snapped Borgan, emerging from his reverie over the bloody mass of fleggalan worm eggs he was devouring.

N'Vell fixed him with an icy glare; it was well known that the princess did not like to be interrupted. To his credit, the Rhodian appeared unperturbed.

"As I was saying," she continued, "I believe we can use this to our advantage."

Fahd Borgan chortled softly as he watched the Telosian toy with a tress of black hair, a sure sign that she was deep in contemplation of a ploy of some sort, and her ploys were, quite often, simply brilliant.

Ozvey actually smiled. "What did you have in mind?"

 

******************* ********************** ***********************

It would probably have surprised both General Ozvey and Obi-Wan Kenobi to learn that they had anything at all in common, but one taste of the Drimulan klaffee that Arain Fer'mia served the young Jedi was enough to initiate an addiction that would stay with him for the rest of his life.

He smiled as he accepted his second cup, having inhaled the first, as he imagined the comments of his friend, Ciara. Something, no doubt, along the line of "pouring poison directly into one's veins". 

Ciara. He had not been thinking about her much of late. Deliberately. He knew the chances of ever seeing her again were remote at best.

His smile, bittersweet as it was, broadened. Truth to tell, the chances of him surviving to see the end of the next week were probably fairly dim.

He closed his eyes, and, on a completely insane impulse, opened himself to the Force and sent a pulsing message. _I love you, Kiddo._

Then he closed himself down to his normal state of alertness, and regarded Arain Fer'mia expectantly. "I believe you have some information for me."

The ghost smiled. "Eat. You'll need your strength."

Obi-Wan sighed. "You weren't joking, were you?"

"About what?"

The young Jedi could barely wrap his mouth around the words. "The pink satin?"

Fer'mia grinned. "Sorry. No, I wasn't."

Obi-Wan huffed a sigh. "There has to be somebody else, better suited."

But the Captain, sympathetic or not, was shaking his head. "You heard what she said, as well as I did. Nanza likes 'beautiful, young boys'."

"But I'm not . . . ."

The grin became a chuckle. "Sorry, Obi, but I can't think of another single soul - on any ship in the fleet - that fits that description better. Besides, who's more able to take care of himself in a situation like that? Some kid off the street or a Jedi padawan?"

Obi-Wan frowned, knowing he had no choice but to bow to the logic of the situation, but liking it not at all. "It's just so embarrassing," he said finally. "Pink satin! Pink?"

Fer'mia tried to stop grinning, without much success. "You didn't seem to mind so much last night, and that was a pretty - um - explicit performance."

"Yes, but that was improvised. Spur of the moment, which means I didn't have time to think about it."

"Then don't think about this."

The young Jedi frowned again. "I'm not wearing pink," he said finally.

"OK," laughed Fer'mia. "No pink. White maybe, with ruffles, and lace, and a sweet little jeweled collar."

"You're enjoying this entirely too much," Obi-Wan observed.

The Captain managed, at last, to reign in his laughter. "Hey, Kid, look at it from my perspective. How many times in my life am I going to be able to lead a Jedi around, like a pet kitling?"

Obi-Wan's eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped to a near whisper. "Don't let yourself be fooled by appearances, Captain. You will never lead a Jedi around like a pet kitling, no matter what."

Fer'mia nodded good-naturedly, and observed silently that he really hoped he was never the object of the deep, simmering rage he thought he glimpsed sometimes, buried deep beneath the young Jedi's conscious mind. He had heard the mantras all his life; most everybody had. A Jedi knows no anger. Right. And banthas could fly like butterflies.

"Speaking of last night," said the Captain, "how's the head?"

"Not bad," answered Obi-Wan, more than a little surprised to find that it was true. "I don't seem to be hung over."

Fer'mia was obviously surprised. "You must have a constitution like a nerf bull," he observed. "Given how much you drank, most men would be spending the entire day hugging their little white porcelain buddy."

Obi-Wan's eyes grew distant, as he remembered, for just a moment, the soothing caress of pale, spirit hands on his forehead and the faint pressure of cool lips against his face. He smiled softly. _Thank you._

And almost bolted upright as he received the response. _You're welcome._

"Is something wrong?" asked the Captain, noting that the Jedi had blanched suddenly, the color literally draining from his face.

"No," came the response, very soft. "No, I'm fine."

"You don't look so fine," observed Fer'mia. "Should I have Jeb fetch you some analgesic?"

"No. No, really. I'm okay."

"Then eat. We've got a lot of ground to cover today."

Obi-Wan picked up his fork, and took a heaping bite of the cheesy omelet he had been served by a grinning Jebbitz. 

He managed to swallow it before looking up at Fer'mia through teary eyes. "You brought the cook with you?"

The Captain grinned. "How'd you guess?"

Obi-Wan looked down at his plate, at the tower of pale golden omelet that gleamed brightly in the glow of morning. It looked wonderful; it tasted as bitter as rock salt crystals.

"If I eat this," he observed, "I'm not going to be able to go into any wooded areas for at least a month."

"Why not?"

"Because all the wildlife is going to be chasing me around, trying to get a lick."

Arain Fer'mia burst out laughing, as much at the expression on the young Jedi's face as at the mental image evoked by the words. Jebbitz, who had been in the process of draining his second cup of klaffee, spluttered, and managed to spray the dark liquid all over his shirt front.

 

******************* ****************** *******************

 

It was a perfectly innocuous looking device, very small, less than six centimeters in length, composed of some type of dull ceramic material. It looked rather like a lozenge, trailing a short, stiff tail.

"Recognize it?" asked Captain Fer'mia, a look of distaste obvious in his face.

Obi-Wan sighed. "It's a slave tag."

The Drimulan nodded. "But not just any slave tag. This is the new and improved model."

"Meaning?"

Fer'mia reached out and touched the short wire trailing from the device. "This one not only explodes if you wander outside a certain radius, it sends out spectro-radio signals to register your location with a central tracking station, and it emits electronic signals directly into the control centers of the brain."

"And the result?"

Fer'mia frowned. "You don't really need me to explain it, do you?"

"It inhibits brain function."

"Ultimately, yes, if necessary. But it's much more subtle than that. At lower power settings it renders the wearer extremely susceptible to suggestion. However, if the individual manages, somehow, to resist the compulsion to obey, the higher setting kicks in. More effective than any stun gun ever invented, since there's no chance it will miss. You either obey, or you're suddenly comatose, only to wake up in the tender arms of a punishment droid. And it's deliberately set to do no permanent damage, so you can't even hope that it'll accidentally put you out of your misery."

Obi-Wan felt a twinge of pain in his temples as he stared down at the little device. So much evil contained in such a small package, and so indicative of the capacity for malevolence present in almost all sentient species. He wondered, not for the first time, how the galaxy and, indeed, the universe had survived to reach its current age.

"This is what they're buying."

Fer'mia nodded. "All their problems solved, in one neat little package. No more resistance. No more problems with the work force. No problem locating them, when they run away. Instant, enforced obedience. It's even recyclable. When the original wearer dies, you just dig it out, and pop it into the next waiting body. It's pre-programmed to position itself within the body. You don't even have to worry about having a physician implant it. What the hell does it matter whether or not it's done under a sterile field? The patient won't live long enough to make much difference, one way or another. In a matter of months, every person on Drimula could have one of these implanted at the base of their skulls."

The young Jedi heard the bitterness in the Captain's voice, and understood immediately that, as much as Fer'mia cared about the Drimulan people and their fate, there was more here than had been discussed.

"Your cousin," Obi-Wan said softly. "She's been implanted with one of these."

Fer'mia could only nod. "Not the improved version. Not yet, anyway. But she wears the original model. Under Drimulan law, which is a dreadful oxymoron, she's a slave. Both she, and her sons."

"She has a child?"

The Captain was deliberately gazing out into the radiance of Haven's morning, not allowing Obi-Wan to look into his eyes. "She has two, actually. Devlyn is twelve, and Cayle is nine months old."

Obi-Wan frowned. "How long has she been . . ."

The Captain's smile was bitter. "You go right to the heart of it, don't you? But you're right, of course. The little one, Cayle, is the child of Brath Ozvey. But that didn't prevent the bastards from tagging him just the same. Since his mother is a slave, so is he."

Obi-Wan felt the sting of tears behind his eyes. "I'm sorry, Captain. I shouldn't have . . ."

"Asked? Of course, you should have. If we're going to get through this alive, you need to know everything I know, and maybe more. I don't have time to coddle you along, Kid. I can only tell you like it is. Your help could mean the difference between us winning or losing this war, and I'm sorry I have to lay a burden like that on you. I know it's not fair. You're not really old enough or experienced enough to have to deal with that. But that's the way it is. If your Jedi show up and decide to help us out, all the better. But if they don't, you're all we've got."

But Obi-Wan was shaking his head. "No, Captain. You're wrong. You've been fighting this war without me for a long time. It wasn't me, or the Jedi, or the little white fairies of Malastaire that kept you going. It was you, and the ones that stood with you. And people like your cousin. I can't imagine what she must go through. I can't . . . I just can't."

Fer'mia nodded and massaged his temples with long fingers. "She's different now. The girl I knew. . . she doesn't exist any more."

Obi-Wan sighed. "Are you surprised? Wouldn't that change anybody?"

The Captain looked up into the Jedi's eyes, and Obi-Wan almost cringed away from the torment he read in that gaze. "Sometimes I wonder what we're fighting for. When I see things like what's happened to Jhevaghn, and I know that what she was . . . is dead. She's never going to be able to go back to what she was."

The Jedi rose and paced to the window. "We all change, Captain. Every day, and most of us can't go back, no matter how much we want to. Your cousin, she knows what she's given up and why she's done it. Now it's up to us to try to be sure that what was taken from her is given back to her children."

"Thank you, Obi-Wan," said Fer'mia, almost whispering. "I truly don't know if we have a single prayer of accomplishing anything at all, but I do believe we'll all find the will to fight a little longer and give a little more because of you."

Obi-Wan managed a soft laugh. "No pressure. Right, Captain?"

The Drimulan's smile was gentle, as he exchanged glances with Jebbitz, behind the young Jedi's back. The hulking Corellian was taking his duty toward his charge very seriously, and Fer'mia was well pleased. "All things considered," said the Captain, "I think it's time you called me 'Rain'. What do you think?"

As Obi-Wan nodded, a bustle at the doorway announced the arrival of Palani Vau-Bremayne and Solitaire. The latter, as always, was wrapped in his customary air of inscrutable serenity, but such a description would never apply to Palani, who was beaming with suppressed excitement.

"Well?" said Fer'mia, eyebrows lifted.

"Ready, Cap'n," said Palani, "and right as rain."

Fer'mia rose and reached for his jacket. "Come along, young Kenobi. I have a surprise for you."

The Jedi definitely did not look thrilled. "Umm, Rain, I generally don't much like surprises."

"You'll like this one," said Palani, almost laughing.

He was obviously not convinced. The first mate's enthusiasm was sending his imagination into overdrive, until Solitaire leaned forward. "Don't worry, Kid. This doesn't involve anyone having access to you or your body. No pink satin in sight. You really will like this one."

Still not convinced, but realizing that he had little choice, Obi-Wan donned his jacket, adjusted his lightsaber, and followed the crowd out into the corridor, as Jebbitz brought up the rear, his curiously clouded eyes scanning ahead and behind them.

By the luck of the draw, Solitaire was beside the young Jedi, and heard his soft sigh. 

"What?" said the Weapons Master.

Obi-Wan jerked his head back toward Jebbitz. "Feels like he's staring a hole in the back of my neck."

Solitaire made a curious huffing sound, and Obi-Wan wondered if, just maybe, the Weapons Master had actually started to laugh. A moment later, he wasn't wondering; he was sure.

"Don't worry about it," said the Ambrian. "I'm sure it'll cover up nicely."

"What'll cover what?" Obi-Wan knew, immediately, that he shouldn't have asked.

"The jeweled collar. I'm sure you'll look quite fetching."

Obi-Wan did a slow burn, as his companions broke into helpless laughter, including the stoic Weapons Master and the walking monolith who was stuck closer to him than his own shadow.

 

******************** ******************** *******************

The starscape beyond the paristeel canopy was as breathtaking as any anywhere in the galaxy, streaked as it was with nebular fluorescence and the overwhelming majesty of an ion disturbance that periodically bathed everything in flashes of actinic brilliance. Ciara Barosse saw none of it, and her Master had long since given up on trying to interest her in the spectacle.

Ramal Dyprio had retired to his bunk several hours earlier, after threatening his apprentice with Force-induced sleep if she didn't at least pause in her endeavors long enough to eat. She had finally agreed, albeit reluctantly.

It had been a frustrating time for Ciara, as she and her Master followed leads as provided by all the strings the Jedi Council had been able to pull. And the results had been . . . . 

Ciara recited it in her head. Zip. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Nil. Nothing.

Strangely, the tip that might - she still wasn't entirely sure - but just might prove to be useful, had come not from Jedi intelligence gathering resources or galactic news service reports. The tip - actually just a remark - had sprung from Ciara's own memory. And it had been Bant Eryn who had originally uttered the remark, quoting something once said to her by her first Master.

"Follow the money."

That had been Master Tahl's philosophy in attempting to search out information.

Of course, Master Tahl had been a real computer guru, capable of coaxing blood out of cold circuits, according to Temple scuttlebutt.

Ciara knew she wasn't that good, but she wasn't that bad, either. And, besides, she had concluded, what did she have to lose? Every other trail had gone stone cold, no matter how they tried to tweak the sources.

She watched the datascreen scroll rapidly through columns of numbers, records of shipping orders, interplanetary tariff agreements, and on and on. And, once or twice, she almost nodded off. This was hardly the stuff of high adventure.

But she forced herself to re-focus. Too much was at stake for her to give up.

It was at just such a moment, when a drift of drowsiness resulted in a momentary lowering of her shields, that it struck her. Blazing bright - unmistakable - and close. She knew it was close, though she still had no idea just where.

_I love you, Kiddo._

"Obi?" She was on her feet, shouting his name, before she stopped to think of how ridiculous the reaction was. 

He wasn't here, of course. She was in a courier ship, four light hours out of Drimula, drifting at the edge of a nebular rift. It wasn't very likely that he was just going to come strolling through the hatch.

Her Master, on the other hand, was a different story. Ramal was there, reaching for her, before the echo of her cry had quite died away. "Ciara, what's wrong?"

"I heard him," she laughed, belying the tears gathering in her eyes. "He spoke to me, Master. He did. I heard him."

"Ciara, are you . . ." He paused, knowing how badly she wanted it to be true, and decided that, since he had no evidence to the contrary, and since nobody ever could truly judge the strength of a friendship bond between padawan age-mates, that he would allow her to cling to the notion, and he would cling right along with her.

"Could you tell where he is?"

"No," she sighed. "Although he's not that far away. But he's somewhere hidden, Master. Somewhere we're not going to find, without some kind of help."

Ramal gazed out into the splendor of space, lost in thought. Finally, he sighed. "They're here to fight a war. So they won't stay hidden for long. We just have to be patient, Little One."

She smiled. "Maybe not quite so patient, Master."

He stroked the dark, sleek cap of her hair, and grinned. "What have you found?"

She gestured toward the data screen. "Master Tahl was right. When you're stuck, follow the money. I now know more about interplanetary mining consortiums and ore processing and shipping than I ever wanted to learn."

"How does that help us?"

She smiled. "Learning what they sell, and who they sell it to (and oh, Master, is the Council ever going to be surprised!) doesn't help us much. On the other hand, tracing what they spend, and where they spend it, is a different matter altogether."

"Ciara," he laughed, "you're acting very smug. It's not pretty, you know."

Her grin widened. "I'm feeling pretty smug. Tell me, Master. Did you ever meet a Hutt named Nanza? He's had some interesting dealings with this consortium. And he has even more coming up. Coming up very soon, Master."

"And this concerns us how?"

Now she frowned. "There's the rub in the whole thing," she answered. "No matter how hard I try, I can't get a lock on what he's selling them. It's all super-encrypted, and even the decryption codes - the best we've got - can only come up with some kind of device."

"So what makes you think . . ."

"The initial deposit was two million daktaris," she answered, "with lots more to come. Now, if you were in the middle of a pitched battle with a resistance army, would you be spending that kind of money on synthsilk and fine wines. Especially since the port of origin for the shipment is Kessel."

Ramal grew even more thoughtful. "Could be spice, Love."

She nodded. "Agreed, but it doesn't make much sense. They're sure not going to give it to their troops. If they give it to the population, it would make them docile enough, but they'd be useless for laborers. The only way it would make sense is if they intend to resell it, and I have to wonder why they'd bother. I mean, they're mining tagmonditurium, which is way more valuable than the finest spice Kessel ever produced. Why would they bother?"

Ramal grinned. "Flawlessly logical, Little One. I'm impressed. So where are we going?"

"We're going to follow the money," she answered. "Two days from now, Nanza the Hutt has a meeting with one F. Borgan at Moroon's Casino on Twingira's second moon, to initiate a bank transfer. Fahd Borgan is the Drimulan CFO of Offworld Mining. If the Ghost is as smart as he appeared to me, then I think he's going to have someone at that meeting, trying to trace that shipment."

Ramal Dyprio regarded his padawan with dark, brooding eyes. "As smart as he appeared to you? And just when might that have been, my young Padawan?"

Ciara actually grimaced. "Oh, shi - um - darn! I forgot to . . ."

"Answer me," he interrupted. "That's what you forgot to do. When did you meet the Ghost?"

She sighed. "I was never in any danger, Master. You know Obi-Wan would never have allowed anything to hurt me."

"Umm hmm. So this was a Ciara/Obi-Wan stunt, was it? Just like old times?" 

"Please, Master. Nothing went wrong. It was just . . . There was no other way."

"Ciara," he said gently, "there's always another way. For example, why didn't either of you think to go to your Master?"

A tear slipped from the corner of her eye, and he frowned. "Love, I'm not scolding you. I just . . ."

"No, Master," she answered, "it's not that. It's just, when this happened, Obi-Wan was losing his Master. It was while they were on Mejanis, and the Ghost . . . he wouldn't agree to meet with you or Master Qui-Gon. There really wasn't any choice. But I'm sorry I deceived you, Master."

The padawan sank to her knees and took his hands. "I ask your forgiveness, my Master. And I submit myself for your punishment."

Ramal Dyprio abruptly jerked his hands free of her grasp and used them to cover his mouth. The little minx was actually on her knees, abject with remorse, begging to be punished. Oh, he was really going to have a long talk with one Obi-Wan Kenobi when he got his large hands on that young neck. The girl had learned the ways of her mischievous friend all too well.

A twitch of her eyes was, finally, too much, and he broke out laughing. "Get up, Little Wench, and set course for Twingira, before I change my mind and take you across my knee."

"Who-hoo!" she cooed, rising immediately. "That sounds interesting."

He sighed. "I remember padawans who were soft-spoken and respectful and eager to do their Master's bidding."

She hooted her laughter. "Must have been before your time."

He grinned and moved to stand behind her as she fed data into the nav-computer. "Excellent work, Little One," he said softly. "I'm very proud of you, and your little friend has a lot to be thankful for."

But she shook her head. "He's more than that," she replied, slightly annoyed by the tears that welled up in her eyes. "He's not just a friend."

Master Ramal spun her chair around to look down into her face, eyebrows arching. "Is there something I should know here?" he teased gently.

"No," she answered, embarrassed as he reached out and wiped away her tears. "It's not like that. We sort of . . . explored that once, but it wasn't . . ."

"Wasn't what?" he prompted softly.

"It wasn't right," she continued. "I'm not saying it very well, but, somehow, we both knew that wasn't what we were supposed to be to each other. Am I making any sense at all?"

His smile was a benediction. "Perfect sense, my Padawan. Young Kenobi is part of your heart."

"Yes," she cried happily. "Exactly, but not that way. He's . . . my brother, in my heart."

Ciara went back to her calculations for the hyperdrive activation, while Ramal moved away, his eyes unfocused as he stared out into the cosmos.

As the splendid display of galactic chaos was transformed into the distortion of hyperspace, Dyprio stood lost in thought. 

Ciara took a moment to extend a gentle probe of Force energy toward her Master, and was marginally surprised to find his mental shields functioning at a high level. The Master/Padawan bond was still open, of course; that was a given. But it was curiously muted, as if he were exploring thoughts he did not wish to share. This was sufficiently unusual to cause her to turn to study his face.

Ramal was aware of his padawan's scrutiny, of course, and of her probe; that sweet presence in his mind and his heart had been the focus of his life for the past ten years. It was extremely rare that he failed to notice anything she did. Which was why he was mildly surprised, and moderately amused, if slightly alarmed, that she and her childhood companion had managed to pull off their little deception. Undoubtedly, it was the result of his reluctance, the same reluctance endured by almost all Jedi Masters, to violate his padawan's right to privacy. A bonded Master walked a very thin line, between exerting the control necessary to protect and defend a padawan, and allowing the freedom to promote growth and learning.

But none of that accounted for the shielding with which he was now guarding his thoughts.

Ramal Dyprio was, in several ways, an extremely unusual Jedi. He was, of course, Corellian and thus, like most Corellian Jedi, not Temple bred or trained. And he was something of a renegade, less constrained with the letter of Jedi rules, and more concerned with the spirit of the Order.

But, in one particular way, he was a member of an extremely limited group. Most Jedi, no one understood why, were strong in one form of the Force, or the other - the Living Force or the Unifying Force. And the prevalence of one form generally signified a weakness in the other. 

Not Ramal Dyprio. There was no preference, as he was extremely strong in both.

Which meant that he was occasionally subject to visions.

Like now.

He sighed softly. He really, really didn't like visions, especially like the one he was having now.

He saw children, boys and a tiny girl caught up in a pulse of darkness, which was thick and cold and relentless. He couldn't tell if the children were dead or not, only that they were limp and helpless in the hands of a woman that the Jedi Master thought he should know, but couldn't remember. A woman with lustrous black hair and eyes as deep and hard as Corellian sapphires.

It was a fleeting image - there and then gone, too quickly to analyze, but not quickly enough to fail to terrify.

 

****************** ****************** ****************

 

It was early afternoon in the Jedi Temple, a period of intense activity, when initiates and padawans, finished with classrooms for the day, embraced the physical aspects of their training, grateful for the opportunity to practice katas, or to spar in one of the great training salles. 

There was an easy spirit of camaraderie in the practice halls as knights and Masters frequently participated in the physical exertion, both to assist in the training of the younger members, and to refresh their own skills and abilities.

It was a time that Qui-Gon Jinn had encouraged young Xani to take advantage of, by observing as much as he could of the various exercises and training techniques. And he had done as his Master suggested, and found the time spent to be well worth the effort. Though Qui-Gon had strictly observed the edict that prevented him from training his new apprentice, others within the Temple, either unaware of the moratorium on his training, or uncaring, had worked with him from time to time. Since he was a gifted student and a fast learner, such lessons had been of great benefit to him.

This afternoon, however, he had other things to do. This afternoon, there were events to set in motion, events that would lead, in time, to a pre-ordained conclusion. Or so he had been taught.

The timing, anyway, could not have been more perfect.

Master Qui-Gon had left him to his own devices for a few hours, which suited his purposes admirably. The only thing that didn't suit him quite so well, was the reason for the Master's absence. He had gone to the healers' wing, to speak to Master Brea-Lei and Healer Mirilent Soljan concerning the condition of Padawan Muln. 

Xani was alone in the corridor as he made his way toward the main gardens, and he allowed himself a small, quick smile. The poor padawan had suffered a terrible fall a few days ago, and had failed to regain consciousness despite the assurances of the healers that, physically, there was nothing wrong with him. Which was a bit of a miracle in itself, Xani admitted grudgingly. The clumsy apprentice (well, maybe clumsy was not quite the right word; momentarily distracted might be more accurate) had actually broken his neck in the fall, but the Jedi healers were the best in the galaxy, and they had gotten to him quickly. The injuries were healed, but Garen slept on.

His Master, Brea-Lei Mirin, a beautiful Iegan woman with platinum hair and violet eyes, was growing more and more concerned, as she felt her bond with her padawan beginning to close down, and she had asked to see Qui-Gon, to question him concerning the bizarre circumstances of the accident, since he had been the only Master present when it happened.

Qui-Gon had agreed, of course, although he had been understandably hesitant when he learned that Healer Soljan would also be present. Nevertheless, Master Jinn was nothing if not a creature of duty, so he had allowed himself only a small sigh, before agreeing to the meeting.

He had left Xani in meditation. He thought.

Xani took a moment to make absolutely sure that his shields, those magnificent shields that the Master had not even begun to understand, were firmly in place, before proceeding to his destination.

Of course, the absence of Qui-Gon was only one necessary component of this first step in the mission plan, and not even the most vital component. Xani could, he thought, if necessary, always find the means to escape the Master for a little while. And a little while was really all that was required.

But the other necessary component was not a variable; it was an absolute. Without it - actually, without _her_ \- there was no way to proceed.

But now all was as it must be. Oomy was back in the area designated for the care of the Mejanis children. Oomy, the vital component, and he would not dwell on how that fact made him feel.

Xani climbed the stairs quickly, and sped across the suspended walkway, not so much as sparing a glance for the spot from which he had fallen.

Casting ahead of him through the Force, he noted that only a teacher's aide was present in the children's quarters at the moment, a non-Force wielding civilian employee of the Temple's childcare center, and a non-threat to his plan. With a wave of his hand, he induced a wave of drowsiness in the young woman, who was seated at a desk in the tiny schoolroom. Within seconds, she was deeply asleep.

Damy and Luby - the cloned offspring of the two Jedi knights who had originally discovered the cloning facility, along with Tahl - were waiting patiently when Xani entered the common room of the apartment. The level of communication between the three of them would have astounded the rank and file of the Jedi Temple, and even most of the Masters, had they known about it.

Oomy, however, was a different proposition.

Not that she was not a part of the mental communication network. But the thing was that, if she was, no one knew it, for she never participated in _any_ type of communication with the other children. So none of them were ever certain if she could even hear them at all.

Somehow, though, they thought she could. Somehow, they told themselves, though they never discussed it openly, they didn't think there was very much that the little girl couldn't do.

"Where is she?" asked Xani. "We don't have a lot of time."

Oomy appeared in the doorway, her eyes narrow and thoughtful. "What did you do to that boy?" she asked softly.

"What difference does it make?" Xani sneered. "Or have you found another pet, since Kenobi's gone?"

The child, so deceptively small for her age, moved forward until she stood directly before him and impaled him with frosty eyes. "You," she said, barely audible, "don't say his name again. Ever. I'm still remembering, you know. It will all come back. When it does, I hope, for your sake, that you didn't have anything to do with sending him away."

He laughed, but the sound of it was hollow. "And what are you going to do about it if I did? You don't scare me, Little Baby."

She smiled. "Yes, I do. Now. What are you doing here, and what do you want?"

Xani's expression turned surly and smug as he gestured for the two boys to join him in making Oomy the center of a tight circle.

"You know what I'm doing here," he said coldly, "And I'm not the one who wants it."

Had Obi-Wan or Master ru Caeri or Master Yoda been present, or maybe even someone like Master Qui-Gon Jinn, they would almost certainly have noticed the flare of dread in the little girl's eyes, but so skilled was she in locking her emotions away from those with whom she had grown up that the boys noticed nothing. Until her eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed, trembling like a leaf caught in a dust devil.

The three boys, however, noted it only in passing, as they were, by that time, deep in concentration, under the guidance of a mind far more disciplined, far more focused, and far more determined than their own.

They were aware of what was happening, but only remotely. As if they were watching it happen to someone else.

Oomy, however, was not aware at all. Her consciousness lingered in a twilight state, completely shielded from the incredible power that poured through, and was focused by, her mind.

A darkness was birthed and rose to hover over the Jedi Temple, and certain residents therein felt its weight despite being unaware of its genesis or its purpose.

Master Yoda was startled out of contemplation of a blooming Petzidi plant, an ancient bromeliad that had not bloomed since before his birth more than eight hundred years before, and would not bloom again for another millennium. The cup-shaped bloom, there was and would be only the one, was exquisite, and he had waited for it for a very long time. Indeed, when he had noted that the blooming stage of the plant was imminent, he had felt tears start in his eyes, for he had not waited alone for this event. In recent years, he had been joined in his vigil by a certain ginger-haired, human padawan, whose romantic nature had been inspired by the tenacity and determination of the plant.

Nevertheless, the tiny Master surged to his feet with a wordless cry as the darkness touched his mind, the violet-hued blossom forgotten in his alarm. His dread had no focus, no center to which he could direct his attention, but he moved anyway, as rapidly as he could, which was surprisingly fast for someone of his age and stature.

He met Mace Windu in the corridor and saw something akin to panic in the dark Master's velvet eyes.

"Do you know what it is?" Windu asked, his voice hollow and empty.

"No," replied Yoda, "but it seeks the padawans. We must hurry."

The effect was profound throughout the Temple, but nowhere so extreme as in the training salle, where Masters and padawans had been involved in complex katas and ritual sparring.

It was as if a shroud had abruptly settled over the vast chamber, a shroud of silence, silence not only of the voice, but of the mind.

Abruptly, between one thought and the next, the training bonds that existed between teachers and students, that were an integral, vital part of the connections between all Jedi, were closed down. Locked tight. Severed.

In seconds, every apprentice within the salle was on the floor, stunned, at the very least, or, in some cases, severely wounded from falls or collisions or even, in a few instances, lightsaber burns. Some of the knights, and even a few of the Masters didn't look much better.

In the healers' wing, the effect was more subtle, but just as disorienting. And, in one case, completely devastating.

Qui-Gon Jinn had been trying to assist Master Brea-Lei in reinforcing her link to her padawan when he felt the cold touch of something ugly and alien and vengeful reach into that bond and reduce it to shreds.

The Iegan Master went to her knees, a mental scream of incredible power tearing from her and knifing through Qui-Gon's mind like a scythe.

On his bed, Garen convulsed once and lay still.

Mirilent Soljan was there immediately, throwing both Masters away from her patient as easily as if they had been weightless. An ominous screech issued from the monitoring equipment attached to Garen's biobed.

"Get out," snapped Mirilent to the Masters, as her emergency team tore into the tiny room.

Qui-Gon, still quite stunned and uncertain of how to help Garen's Master, replied, "But she . . "

"You'll have to worry about her," the Healer said coldly. "I have to try to save the boy."

Brea-Lei Mirin was weeping softly, only dimly aware of her surroundings, and Qui-Gon, finally, just picked her up and carried her from the room. A final glance at the boy in the biobed was not encouraging. Garen's skin appeared almost transparent, his shock of black hair only serving to emphasize his pallor. He did not seem to be breathing.

Despite the need to hustle the boy's Master out of the pandemonium, Qui-Gon paused for the space of a heartbeat, and found himself assailed by memories. Memories of this boy and his best friend. Memories of camping trips, and summer swims, and waxed surfboards; of sparring competitions and birthday parties and gossip about girls. Always the two, usually in the company of two more, one boy, one girl.

What have we done to our padawans? 

Qui-Gon, moments later, had no idea why that phrase had leapt into his mind.

By the time Brea-Lei regained full consciousness, and healers had been summoned to attend the injuries in the training salle, the dark energy that had assaulted them all was gone. As if it had never existed at all.

Except that it had, and it had left a small residue.

The training bonds reformed immediately, and Masters and padawans alike heaved huge sighs of relief.

But it required only a few moments for all of them to notice that the bonds, though reestablished, were not quite as they had been, not quite as strong or as crisp or as open. The light which had always pulsed through them so clearly seemed filtered somehow. As if touched by shadow.

In the Healers' wing, Padawan Garen continued to sleep, his mind now totally adrift, totally severed from that of his Master.

And, on a sunlit terrace perched high above a lush valley in the northern hemisphere of Drimula, a Telosian princess of the royal blood allowed herself a small, self-satisfied smile and contemplated how to celebrate her preliminary victory. There would be more such skirmishes, of course, before the war was won, but she knew now, beyond all doubt, that what she sought was within her grasp.

She didn't know yet just how she would choose to celebrate today's small victory, but she had already made her choice for her ultimate celebration, the person who would feel the power of her exultation when the destruction of her enemies - and her brother's - was assured.

Obi-Wan Kenobi would be her final victory feast, the banquet on which she would dine as Qui-Gon Jinn twisted in the wind of despair, bearing witness to the complete and utter degradation of his pure little padawan.

 

****************** ********************** *******************

 

"It's a bloody miracle," Obi-Wan said softly, as he followed Captain Fer'mia and his officers through the square.

"What is?" asked Palani.

The young Jedi allowed his eyes to sweep the beauty of their surroundings. "That you ever have anybody willing to leave this place. For any reason, much less to go fight a war."

Arain Fer'mia glanced back and smiled. "To hell with the rest of the galaxy, huh? Not very Jedi, is it?"

Obi-Wan breathed deep, and found the air incredibly rich and sweet. "No, but very human."

The Captain laughed. "Agreed, but I think what you're about to see might just change your mind."

Obi-Wan just looked skeptical, as they rounded a spiral fountain and entered a vined alcove.

Everyone stopped as the Captain palmed a small doorway that was barely visible among the deep foliage.

"We'd been here months before anyone found this place," he said, with a strange, almost wistful smile. "It's almost like it was waiting, for the right person to find it."

Now Obi-Wan was _really_ skeptical. "And that person would be me?"

Fer'mia grinned. "See for yourself."

The building was long and low and not particularly well lighted, unlike most of the buildings on Haven. Although it was certainly not ugly - the builders of this place apparently had no concept of what 'ugly' meant - it was not overly striking either, seeming to just fade into the background.

It was also, for the most part, empty. A vast, open space, with the dimness overhead filled with shadows that might have been different types of equipment.

Empty. Echoing, almost. Except for something, barely visible at the far end.

Obi-Wan looked over at Fer'mia, uncertainty plain on his face.

"Go ahead," said the Captain, his voice curiously gentle. "I think this moment was intended to be yours, alone. Go take a look."

Now Obi-Wan was getting annoyed; the Captain seemed to have allowed himself to be drawn into some kind of mystical nonsense that made no sense at all under their present circumstances. They had important things to do, and little or no time to waste.

But, given the looks on their collective faces, he wasn't going to be able to move on to important matters until he looked at whatever they wanted him to see.

Muttering to himself, none too discreetly, about "foolishness" and "folly", the young Jedi squared his shoulders and strode forward into the dappled shadows.

Such was the design of it, and the genius of it, that he was within a few meters before he recognized it for what it was, and understood, suddenly, instinctively, that his companions had been right. It was meant for him. And the reason he knew that was because it spoke to him. Not in words, words would never be necessary. He simply knew; he was the sunlight that gave life to this particular flower.

He simply stood and looked at it in total silence, until he realized that Fer'mia was at his shoulder.

"She has no interphase hardware, no control panels or circuits of any kind," said the Captain. "Absolutely no means of connection, so the only possible way . . ."

"Is through the Force," breathed Obi-Wan, eyes brilliant now, overwhelmed.

She was the color of spring rain, a soft, muted gray tinged with platinum, and designed with the same grace and attention to loveliness that characterized everything on Haven, sculpted rather than fabricated. 

She was a sloop, the size of a small private yacht, and everything about her said speed and beauty and efficiency and, above all, pure exuberance. There wasn't a single straight line or hard angle anywhere on her hull; she was much more reminiscent of a great creature of the sea than any artificial construct.

Fer'mia waved a hand at a sensor, and a ramp extended from amidships, stopping at Obi-Wan's feet.

"Well?" said Fer'mia, delighted with the young Jedi's speechlessness.

"She's . . . I don't have the words."

"Better find some. For a name, at least."

Obi-Wan blinked, his mind, for some reason, finding it difficult to process information or words.

"What?"

"She needs a name."

The Jedi smiled. "You're letting me name her."

Fer'mia leaned forward and laid his hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder. "Why not? She's yours."

Now he was certain his brain had mal-functioned. He couldn't have heard what he thought he heard. "What did you say?"

But Fer'mia was favoring him with a tender smile and nodding. "You heard me. I said, she's yours."

Obi-Wan, with no warning, went to his knees, and could muster no more than a whisper when he spoke. "Captain, there's no need to . . ."

Fer'mia bent over and looked directly into the Jedi's eyes. "You are no longer Jedi, and I can do as I please with this ship. And I please to give it to you. It's not like anybody else could ever use it anyway."

For a few moments, Obi-Wan simply sat there on his knees, trying to take it in. He had never wanted anything in his life like he wanted this ship, except, of course, to be a Jedi. But that, now, was out of the question. The ship, however . . .

He looked, once more, at Fer'mia, hardly daring to believe.

The Captain just nodded.

And suddenly, Palani and Jebbitz were there as well, laughing at his incredulity, and rejoicing in his delight. Even Solitaire, reserved as always, seemed to be regarding him with veiled approval.

The hulking bodyguard lifted the young Jedi to his feet before turning to study the sleek vessel in its entirety. Even at rest, in the dim light of the hanger, it looked as if it were eager to leap from its landing pad and sever the bonds that held it motionless. This was no flight of fancy; this was the dream of a lifetime, waiting to be freed from its moorings.

"What's her name, Obi?" asked Palani, slapping him on the back hard enough to send him back to his knees, if not for Jeb's steadying hand.

For a moment, he drew a blank, but it was Jebbitz who provided the inspiration finally.

"She's the color of heaven, early in the morning, just before sunrise," observed the big Corellian, surprising them all with his moment of incidental poetry.

Obi-Wan looked again at the ship - _his_ ship - and the name sang in his mind.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," he said softly, "I give you the _Morning Angel_."

******************* ********************* ********************** 

tbc


	19. Weaving the Chain

Chapter 19: Weaving the Chain

_Oh stay! Oh stay!_  
Joy so seldom weaves a chain  
Like this to-night, that oh 'tis pain  
To break its links so soon. 

\------Thomas Moore - _Fly Not Yet_

The cockpit was built to accommodate four comfortably, but none of the six currently inhabiting it, regardless of the closeness of the quarters, would have willingly departed. Even the one who was looking slightly green (which was decidedly not his natural coloration) was too wrapped up in observing the actions and reactions of the young man at the vessel's one-of-a-kind helm to admit to a wish to be elsewhere. What he would have admitted, had anyone bothered to ask, was that the pilot would have his blessing - and his gratitude - if he would only cease and desist immediately with the figure eights and loops and corkscrew spins that seemed to be delighting everyone besides himself. Except the Weapons Master, of course, for who could know what that worthy gentleman was feeling or thinking, concealed behind that impregnable armor.

Jebbitz was barely able to suppress a groan as the _Morning Angel_ emerged from a scrap of nebula gas in a twisting plunge toward a ribbon of random energy, her inertial compensator monitor screens glowing a bright, strobing green. Jebbitz wasn't sure, and was afraid to ask, if anybody really knew what that particularly acid shade of green might have meant to the entities who built this ship. However, judging from the fact that his stomach had long since vaulted up into his chest cavity and was now threatening to engulf his heart, he thought he might just have figured it out, to his intense dismay.

But if the huge Corellian was dismayed, he was alone in his misery. Everyone else was far too fascinated with the reactions of the young man sitting in the pilot's contoured seat to pay more than cursory attention to anything else.

Young Jedi Obi-Wan Kenobi was in the grip of a euphoria such as he didn't remember ever having experienced before, as the Force stroked him like a musical instrument and connected him to this great shadowy beast that purred under his hands, hands that were plunged elbow deep into what appeared to be some kind of Force field, and that yielded only to his touch. To the others present, it had presented only an unyielding, crystalline surface. But it had opened to him like a flower to the sun, swirling with bright energy, and now, his thoughts and the ship's responses were one - flawless, seamless. He had never known such exhilaration.

Arain Fer'mia was sitting in the co-pilot's seat, grinning, every bit as intrigued as the young pilot, if slightly less intimately involved, and exulting equally in the physical sensations of the wild flight. "Well?" he asked finally, unable to contain his eagerness any longer.

"It's . . . it's . . . 

Obi-Wan turned to the Ghost fleet commander, and Fer'mia almost gasped at the sheer joy glowing in the gem-toned eyes. "I'm speechless," said the young Jedi finally. "It's better than . . ."

"Sex?" suggested the irrepressible Palani Vau-Bremayne, with a smug grin.

When Obi-Wan replied with a good-natured chuckle, Fer'mia exchanged pleased glances with his second in command. Just a few days earlier, the Jedi's response to such a remark would have been one of acute embarrassment. The Captain was well satisfied with his new recruit's progress, though he knew there was still much conflict within the young man which would, sooner or later, demand resolution.

But, for now, he was pleased to believe that they had made an excellent beginning.

Quebal stepped forward, managing to maintain perfect balance despite the contortions the ship was still going through, and looked down over the Jedi's shoulder. "So, is it as easy as it looks?"

"Easier," came the response. "It's like moving your hand. You don't have to stop and think about how to move your hand; you just want to move it, and it moves. It's like the ship is an extension of my body."

Solitaire, standing motionless just within the open hatch, leaned over to examine the weapons console at his left. Unlike the pilot's console, this one contained various pads and switches, so it could be operated by non-Force users. Solitaire thought the builders must have installed it as a contingency plan, in the event the Force-user was incapacitated. The Weapons Master approved; he believed in contingency plans.

"Weapons?" he called, not bothering to elaborate.

Which was fine with Obi-Wan. With little more than a flicker of his eyes, a brace of particle beams leapt from the forward batteries and disintegrated a mass of space rubble. At virtually the same time, a quantum torpedo bolted from the starboard launcher and reduced a shuttle-sized boulder to dust particles.

The Weapons Master said nothing, of course. But Obi-Wan was learning to read Solitaire's body language, and thought he detected a very faint nuance of approval.

"Sensors?" asked the Captain, not because he had any doubts about the ship's functions; it was obvious that the technology built into this little beauty was far beyond anything any of them had ever experienced before. But it was nice to give the young Jedi a chance to show off just a bit. Fer'mia thought it was something the boy had been allowed very little of in the past, and the Drimulan intended to change that - radically.

There was much to be said, he knew, for modesty and self-effacement; nobody, after all, liked or respected a braggart. However, he also believed that superior ability should breed sufficient self-esteem to foster just a slight vein of arrogance, subtle but unmistakable. And a kid like this one? There should definitely be a hint of a swagger in his manner.

Fer'mia had been observing Obi-Wan since their first meeting, and was fairly certain that the propensity was there; that the 'swagger' was definitely locked away somewhere within him. It was just buried under all that Jedi serenity. Which had served the kid well enough when the Temple comprised his entire universe; in the real world, where attitude could either save your life or get you killed, something more was needed.

Besides, the youth needed - really needed - to kick up his heels a bit, to laugh, to enjoy, to run a little wild, and Fer'mia knew just the place - or places - to allow him to accomplish that.

Obi-Wan blinked and smiled. "Two ships coming through the corridor - a light freighter and a gunboat. The gunboat has a bit of battle damage, but nothing serious. The corridor's shutting down, by the way. Signals will be off-line in four point six-seven minutes." 

"Show-off," said Palani with a grin, as she went to the communications panel to greet and debrief the new arrivals.

Meanwhile, Quebal gestured to the multitude of dials and gauges that surrounded the pilot's station, some nothing more than bright images afloat in mid-air. "Do you understand all that?"

Obi-Wan laughed. "Not a word, but I don't have to. It's like . . . I'm not sure how to explain it." He thought for a moment. "It's like hearing music; it doesn't matter if you don't know the words. The melody speaks to you anyway."

Fer'mia smiled. "You really do have the soul of a poet, my friend. But does it speak to you clearly enough to allow you to pilot it safely, outside of Haven?"

The Jedi grinned. "Why don't you arrange a little competition, Captain? Me and my _Angel_ against anybody you've got, in the ship of your choice, anywhere you like."

"Why, Jedi Kenobi," replied Fer'mia, "I'm shocked. You wouldn't, by any chance, be proposing a little wager. Would you?"

The Jedi's smile was brilliant. "At your discretion, Captain."

Now it was Fer'mia's turn to laugh. Oh, yes, that was definitely the birth of a swagger he was reading in those sea-change eyes. "Against a ship that reads your mind? I may be reckless, but I'm not completely crazy. Do you have any idea what her maximum speed might be?"

Obi-Wan's eyes swept the display set out for him, but his expression seemed to be far away from this moment. "I don't think even she knows that, Rain. She's never really been tested."

Palani Vau-Bremayne came to stand behind the pilot's seat and leaned forward, her hands braced against Obi-Wan's shoulders, as she beamed at him. "A virgin ship, Obi, for a virgin cap'n. Very appropriate."

And Fer'mia laughed softly as that tell-tale blush flared in the boy's face.

"You'll get a chance to check it out for yourself," said the Captain. "When you take her to Twingira."

Obi-Wan adjusted the ship's course to bring them about for the return to Haven. "When?" he asked.

"Tomorrow," said Fer'mia. Then he smiled. "As soon as we take care of a few details."

The smile was all the Jedi required to catch the drift of the Captain's meaning. "I was sort of hoping you'd forgotten those 'details'."

The captain laughed. "Not hardly, my friend. But you'll be relieved to hear that I've been told my ideas of how to - um - enhance your appearance are totally off the mark. No pink satin or lace. I'm told they don't want a man that looks like a beautiful girl; they want a beautiful man. Just goes to show what I know about it. Anyway, I decided to consult an expert."

Throughout this short speech, Obi-Wan had been growing steadily more uneasy. "An expert?" he echoed. "What kind of 'expert'?"

He looked around at the faces of his new friends, surprising himself just slightly in acknowledging them as such, and tried to still the flutters in his stomach as he interpreted their smiles. They would not suggest anything that would bring him to real harm; he knew that. And he knew that the big Corellian, whose complexion was now the color of soft cheese, would, very likely, lay down his own life in defense of the one he was charged to protect. But none of them were above enjoying his discomfiture.

"Obi," said Fer'mia, not bothering to stifle his grin, "this army of ours is not exactly made up of the cream of society. More like the dregs. When it comes to fighting the good fight, they're as good as it gets. But socially? You're more likely to find them belly up to the bar than tripping the light fantastic, if you know what I mean. And I assume that you've noticed by now that our population here in Haven is a bit lopsided. As in an eight-to-one ratio, male to female."

"I noticed," replied Obi-Wan wryly.

"Then you might not be too surprised to learn that we have our share of camp followers here, creatures of the night who make their living in - um - service."

Now it was Obi-Wan's turn to smile, as Fer'mia actually appeared to be blushing. "Rain," said the Jedi softly, "I'm not really that naïve, you know. I'd be pretty surprised if you didn't have a brothel or two in town."

"Whoa, ho," laughed the first mate. "Not perhaps so virginal as we thought. Right, Obi?"

He tossed her a roguish grin. "That, dear 'Lani, is none of your business."

For a moment, he saw a strange, almost wistful expression touch her face, before she winked at him and turned away.

Solitaire, still standing motionless by the hatch, watched the Corellian woman for a moment, noticing what no one else did, noting the suspicious glimmer in her eyes before she ducked her head to stare out a side port.

Score another one for the kid, thought the Weapons Master, and then wondered at the exact meaning of his own observation. 

"Anyway," continued Fer'mia, "I'm advised that if you want to transform a young man into a beautiful young courtesan, you avail yourself of the services of a pro."

"Such as?" The suspicion in Obi-Wan's voice was thick enough to clot cream.

It was Palani who answered, finally. "We're taking you out on the town, Kid. Next stop? Madam Gratta's House of Evening Pleasures."

"Great," muttered the youth, to the delight of his companions. "I spend my whole life training to be a knight, and, as my ultimate achievement, I have to put myself in the hands of a Madam to learn how to look and act like a prostitute."

Strangely, it was Jebbitz who made the remark that wiped the smiles off their faces; Jebbitz, who probably would never even recognize the significance of his comment.

"Hey," he said quietly, with a gentle smile, having finally regained control of his stomach, "at least, you're only playing. When it's over, you get to go home - alone, if that's what you want."

Obi-Wan looked over at Arain Fer'mia and had the grace to look ashamed of himself. "Sorry, Rain," he said softly. "Jeb's right. For me, it's just a grown-up version of make-believe."

Fer'mia nodded and rose from his chair. "But it's no game, Obi. You better be sure you remember that. You're going into a real den of iniquity, and I intend to make sure you're ready for anything they throw at you. Don't get me wrong; I want that information. More than want it; I'll kill to get it, if I have to. And the simple truth is that I'd probably allow you to get killed to get it. I need you, Obi; the resistance needs you, but not as much as I need to know about that shipment. Because if that merchandise gets through, then we're screwed, my friend. And there'd be nothing left to do to save Drimula. Understand?"

Obi-Wan's smile was wistful and bittersweet. "You're preaching to the choir, Cap. This is the kind of thing I was born and raised to do."

Fer'mia studied the young Jedi's face for a few moments. "I guess I never thought of it like that, but you're right. This is exactly what Jedi do, isn't it?"

Obi-Wan busied himself with landing procedures as the sleek vessel settled into her berth with the lightness and delicacy of a feather drifting on a freshet of cool air. Finally, he shut down the whisper-quiet engines and returned the captain's scrutiny. "Yes. This is exactly what Jedi do."

"Then I need to ask you a question, young Jedi," said Fer'mia, very solemn, very serious, "and I need as truthful an answer as you can provide."

"Go on."

The captain paused slightly, and his eyes swept the circle of the group that stood around them both. Finally, he turned back to face Obi-Wan, and his eyes were rock steady. "Exactly how good are you, young Kenobi? How good are you at what you've been trained to do? And how good are you at getting out of trouble, if there's no one around to help you?"

Obi-Wan removed his hands from the force field before him, and the bright glow of instrumentation around him faded slowly to a faint shimmer of light. He did not rush to answer Fer'mia's question, but took time to consider his response.

At last, he smiled gently. "I believe I'm as good as any 20-year-old Jedi padawan could be. I've had the benefit of the best training the Temple could provide." His sigh was achingly soft. "The Master who taught me was incredibly gifted; and he taught me well. My weapons skills are as good as any young knight in the Temple, and I've fought my share of battles, and had my share of wins and losses." He paused and took a deep breath. "But I'm still not a Jedi knight, Rain. I don't yet have the skills and knowledge that I would have gained in another five or ten years. So I guess my final answer is that I think I'm pretty good, but I don't know if that's good enough."

Surprisingly, it was not the captain, but the Weapons Master who stepped forward and peered deep into the boy's eyes. Finally, Solitaire raised one gauntleted hand, and laid it against Obi-Wan's chest. "Don't tell me what's in your head, Boy," said that bland mechanical voice. "Don't tell me about your training or your skills. Tell me what's in your heart."

"I don't know what you . . . ."

"One true thing," said Solitaire. "Tell me one true thing about Obi-Wan Kenobi. Not about the Jedi, or the student. About you."

Obi-Wan took a moment to think about it. Then he smiled, and the smile grew as he answered. "I really, really, absolutely hate - to lose," he said.

Palani, Quebal, and Jebbitz simply grinned, as the Weapons Master nodded and stepped back, apparently satisfied.

Arain Fer'mia, however, threw his head back and howled with laughter. "That's the most un-Jedi statement I think I've ever heard, and it's plenty good enough for me," he managed to gasp, between guffaws. "Let's go turn you into a tart, of the first order."

 

**************** ****************** ******************

 

The House of Evening Pleasures looked like exactly what it was, on the inside, of course. On the outside, it was every bit as lovely and exotic as all the other visions of beauty around it, its glow a blushing mauve with undertones of lavender and ice blue.

Inside, every surface was soft and yielding and sweetly perfumed, and the lighting was subdued and indirect. But wasn't it just a bit too dark - too crowded?

Obi-Wan was trying, very hard, not to be mortified to be present in such a place.

The young Jedi was neither a prude nor a virgin; he was a healthy young human male with the same libidinous urges that plagued every other healthy young human male, and he had handled them in the same way that everyone else did. Sexual activity, while not encouraged among Jedi Padawans, was not specifically forbidden either, as the ancients who had written the Jedi Code had realized early on - and correctly - that forbidding an activity so entwined in biological instincts, so inspired by the unavoidable developments of puberty and so driven by hormones, would be the height of folly. Ultimately, the Jedi position on sexuality was that it was a product of adolescence that could not be totally avoided but - hopefully - could be left behind once the padawan reached an age sufficiently mature to recognize that a life of celibacy was both prudent and preferable for those who would dedicate their lives to the causes espoused by the knighthood.

It was an open secret in the Temple, however, that sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn't. Officially, a knight was supposed to be immune to love and all its entanglements. Unofficially - well - the subject just wasn't discussed. And if there were knights and padawans, and even a few Masters, who spent their lives busily bedding any warm body who proved willing, well, that was their own concern, and Force help them if it ever interfered with their Jedi duties, which, generally, it didn't.

Thus young Kenobi had a considerable wealth of experience to draw from, with companions from both within and without the Temple. But he had never before paid a visit to a 'house of pleasure' And why did that observation feel so bizarre, all of a sudden? He was hard put to keep his mouth from gaping and his eyes from darting at the wealth of pulchritudinous flesh that met his eye at every turn, most of it quite pleasant to behold.

By the time Captain Fer'mia and his party had made their way across the reception room, with its freeform serving bar and its tiny bandstand where a young woman with hair like liquid rubies was attempting - apparently - to make love to a stand-up microphone as she breathed her way through a torch song, to the private offices of Madame Gratta, Obi-Wan had been forced to fend off, as gently as possible, the purring advances of a half-dozen nubile young women, and one equally nubile young man, none wearing much more than a smile and a veil.

He was, of course, completely unfamiliar with such a setting, and yet, there was something in the air that was almost recognizable. The fragrance, maybe. Very sweet - almost cloying. Very pervasive. And beneath the sweetness lay something heavy, almost dark.

Fer'mia led the way into the Madam's private offices, and Obi-Wan followed gratefully, hoping that the odor would be less noticeable inside. Around him, Palani, Solitaire and Jebbitz seemed unaware of his distinct unease. He felt suddenly awkward as if his body suddenly didn't fit him any more, and his clothes were abruptly too heavy - almost smothering.

The young Jedi shook his head slowly, as if trying to clear away random, senseless thoughts.

Gratta, the Jedi realized immediately, could have served as a model for the quintessential brothel owner: large, very blonde, heavily made-up, sweetly perfumed, clad all in black lace and sequins, and puffing on a spice pipe. 

She was almost perfect, but not quite. The hair was too yellow; the lips, slightly too large. And where was the other . . .

The Captain began his explanation of what he wanted, but the madam was way ahead of him.

"Oh, Sweet Child," she murmured, advancing on Obi-Wan like a great catling stalking a rabblet, "why are you wasting your life working for this slave driver? I could make you such a star. With a face and body like that - darling, they'd weep for you."

Obi-Wan blushed scarlet. "Umm, yeah. Right. Do you . . ."

"Cap'n wants to dress him in pink satin," volunteered Palani, with a leering grin, and Obi-Wan had to stifle an urge to zip her lip with a big dose of Force suppression.

The Madam made a dramatic grab at her heart, which, was, of course, buried under an overly ample bosom, which she managed to display quite fetchingly as she gestured. Obi-Wan was startled into observing that, for such a large woman, her flesh was remarkably firm and tanned and . . . whatever.

"Pink? Oh, gods preserve us. Not pink. The child is a vision in pastels already. Pink would be a complete waste. And not satin either. Oh, no."

She turned and took the young Jedi's face in both of her large hands, and stared into his eyes, as something nebulous and cold flared in his mind, compelling him to wonder. _Where was that other face - remarkably beautiful - framed with black hair and centered around brilliant sapphire eyes, cold eyes, predator's eyes?_

"You don't dress this like a girl, Captain. This is a virile, gorgeous young man - black leather, and midnight blue silk," she said finally. "Let me get my wardrobe people in here. You want a courtesan, Rain? When I'm done with him, he's going to be able to walk into a room - any room, anywhere - and arouse all the women and half the men with nothing more than the twitch of a lip - or a hip."

Obi-Wan jerked back instinctively, the feel of the woman's silken hands suddenly unpleasant, once more stirring something dark and buried in his consciousness, as the heavy sweetness of the perfume in the air seemed to invade his senses, making him unsteady on his feet.

"Come on, Darlin'," she urged, reaching for him again. "We need to get you measured. Tomorrow, Rain? You sure don't believe in advance warnings, do you? Now let me see. I'd say the waist is . . .What's your name, Little Darlin'? If I'm going to make you over into something completely irresistible, I don't want to have to call you 'Hey, you'."

"Obi-Wan," he said softly, his face feeling flushed and extremely hot, as he felt her tug on his arm and pull him forward.

"OK, Obi," she said with a smile, and he could almost imagine that the warmth in her eyes was genuine. But then, that was what she did, wasn't it? And he really didn't care for the fragrance and softness of her skin. He was . . . what? What was he . . . Where was he . . . _when_ was he . . .

"Cap'n!" Jebbitz's roar startled Fer'mia into silence, just as the huge Corellian caught young Kenobi as he went down like a felled tree.

 

*************

_It was oppressively hot, wherever he was. Even though he didn't seem to be wearing much in the way of clothing. His skin felt hot and abraded somehow. As if it had been rubbed, as if something had been rubbed into it._

_He opened his eyes and tried to focus, raising his hand to his face and paused to stare at his wrist. Was that the color of his skin? He didn't remember his skin glowing like that, or being quite so golden in color._

_Where was this place? Where was he? And what was that smell - that sweet, over-powering smell - like being covered in flowers._

_Flowers - yes, there were flowers in the room. And candles. And he was lying on something very soft and slick. And there was very little that separated his skin from whatever it was he was lying on._

_Large hands, very soft, seemed to be picking him up, but he couldn't see the face. There had to be a face, didn't there? Hands didn't just float around without bodies. And the hands were covered with that scent, that heavy, cloying scent, and the voice that seemed to wrap around him - a woman's voice, very low pitched and seductive. He suddenly didn't like that word at all. What was the voice saying?_

_"Be still, Little One. No one's going to hurt you. No one's going to put a mark on you; you're much too valuable to damage. Just let the nice people touch you. See? They just want to touch you . . . to love you . . ."_

_Hands everywhere. Stroking him, turning him, and hot breath against his skin._

_The voice went on, but it was more remote now. Not breathing in his ear. "As you can see, Ladies and Gentlemen, our claims are not exaggerated in the least. He is as advertised - unused. Perfect."_

_The hands touched him again, and he tried to pull away, but there were more hands. And then there were lips against his throat and his shoulder - and more hands._

_"No-o-o-o," he groaned, still unable to focus, but knowing that this was not where he belonged. This was not what he was. He tried to twist his face away from that fragrance and that silken assault, but was held firm._

_The voice revealed a small trace of amusement. "Not an appropriate word for you, Little One. Not any more. You will say, 'Yes'. No matter what is asked of you. And when your first owner tires of you, you will come back to us and be a good little whore. Won't you?"_

_Another voice then - lyrical, but frigid. "You see, Gentlemen. I told you he was exquisite. Was I wrong?"_

_A third voice, coarse, guttural. Why couldn't he see any of these faces? Everything happened in a thick swirling mist, and why did his body seem not to fit him._

_"I'll take him."_

_The lyrical voice was almost purring. "My, my, my. You_ are _impressed, aren't you? No haggling, your Excellency? I'm astonished."_

_"He's beyond price."_

_"Yes," crooned the woman. "He is."_

_Stroking hands pushed him down into a smothering softness, and the laughter that followed him was mocking. "Careful now. You may touch; you may even taste, but you may not 'sample' until he is paid for."_

_Obi-Wan felt more hands grappling on his skin, jerking him forward, and then something covered his mouth with bruising force._

_And still none of it was more than brief shadows - a face here, a hand there, variations in light and texture. But he knew - whatever it was, whoever they were - that this was not where he belonged; this was not what he was. He lashed out suddenly, and went to his knees as the heavy collar around his throat constricted painfully and cut off his airway._

_As he gasped to recover full consciousness, he heard a distant thunder, like the approach of a storm._

_And suddenly all around him was pandemonium, and fragments of vision and voices._

_"They're here. Dammit, how did they find us?"_

_"It's Jinn. It has to be him, and he somehow managed to track the child."_

_"But with the collar, he couldn't . . ."_

_"You have another explanation?"_

_"No - what do we . . ."_

_"Oh, for Sith's sake, must I think of everything? Run, Fool! That's what you do."_

_"But the boy. He's worth a fortune."_

_"Is he worth your life? Because if Jinn catches you with him, that's what he'll cost you."_

_Obi-Wan moaned softly, and rolled to his knees, determined to do something, anything besides laying here like a great lump of clay while chaos developed around him. Something registered - very briefly - another image, another face, with strange, faceted eyes and a bright mane of black and silver._

_But the padawan's weakness, instead of abating, seemed to grow worse, and nausea rose in his throat, as he sensed a presence kneeling beside him._

_The laughter in that lyrical voice was filled with cruelty. "I leave you with a gift for your Master, Little One," it said. "A last token of my esteem. It's a shame we didn't have more time; I had such lovely plans for you. You may tell him it's his legacy - from Xanatos."_

_Still wreathed in a mist that he now realized must be drug-induced, he became aware of her face only as she lowered it to taste his lips with her own; it was a radiantly beautiful face, but totally lacking in warmth or empathy - the face of a fallen angel, carved in ice._

_Her lips were soft, but the blade that slid so effortlessly between his ribs was diamond-hard and exquisitely sharp. He felt agony explode within him as she deftly removed the collar that had so effectively blocked his connection to the Force, and to the man who now was instantly aware of the torment assailing his apprentice. Skin that had, only moments earlier, been uncomfortably aware of extreme heat, was now touched with deadly frost._

_"Mas - ter," breathed the padawan, feeling the power of that great mind as it reached for him and wrapped him in its overwhelming strength._

_The mind was only moments ahead of the body, but those who had kidnapped and abused the child were safely away before the Master burst into the perfumed bedroom._

_Obi-Wan knew the wound was bad, knew that the blade had nicked the heart on its path through his chest, knew, in some circumstances, it might be a fatal wound. Then, ultimately, knew he would not die, for one very simple reason. The man who knelt over him, who gathered him up in strong, steady arms and gazed down on him with such compelling love and determination, would simply not allow it. Just as the rough softness of his Master's robe was draped around his body to defeat the chill that gripped him, so the all-encompassing warmth of his Master's spirit wrapped him just as surely, and would hold him safe against the depredations of Fate. Even destiny, it seemed, would bend before the determination of Qui-Gon Jinn._

_The padawan managed a faint smile, as he felt the infusion of healing energy pour into him. At the same time he noted the salty warmth of tears touching his lips. He tried to open his eyes, to see who was crying, but he found, finally, that it was simply too much effort. In a completely instinctive maneuver, he settled against that massive body and gave up his consciousness, safe in the circle of his Master's arms. The last thought in his mind, the last sound he heard, was the rumble of that beloved voice, soothing him. "Sleep, Little One. I've got you."_

_He was fourteen years old, and he would remember nothing of the events of that day, until a combination of random factors - a fragrance, sounds, impressions, colors, sights - reached into his mind and dragged the memories to the surface and led him to relive the events of his fourteen-year-old mind in a twenty-year-old body._

* * * * * * * * * * * * * 

As the incident replayed in his thoughts, he murmured softly and shrank from the hands that touched him, and what he was reliving quickly became obvious to those crouched around him.

The arms that gripped him as he twisted on the floor of Madam Gratta's office were considerably larger than those that had held him six years earlier, and there was no comforting presence infusing his mind and body with healing energy. 

Nevertheless, everyone within that small, over-heated, over-plush room heard the word that escaped the young Jedi's lips, in a small sigh. 

"Master." 

Arain's Fer'mia's eyes grew hard and cold, and he exchanged looks with his first mate. As Madam Gratta and Solitaire knelt beside the boy to coax him back to consciousness, the Drimulan captain struggled to quell his anger. "When all this is over," he said softly, for Palani's hearing only, "I'm going to take myself a nice little vacation, on Coruscant. And I don't care how long it takes - or how much it costs - or how many people try to stop me, I'm going to kill that fucker!" His smile was bleak as he looked up and met her gaze. "Want to come?" 

The same darkness that dwelled in his eyes touched her own. "Only if you let me hold him down." 

Gratta rose as Obi began to stir. "Rain," she said softly, "it's obvious that something has stirred up some old memories in this kid. Now, admittedly, I'm an old whoremonger, but I don't touch kids, and someone touched this one. If you still want me to tart him up, I'll do it, but I think we better take this elsewhere, because he's not going to get any more comfortable here." 

************** ******************** ********************* 

With recovered memories sharp on his tongue like bitter wine, Obi-Wan debated just refusing to open his eyes when he finally regained consciousness. Even as he had been swept up in those erupting visions, some small part of his mind had realized that the flashback had been triggered by the ambiance within the brothel, particularly the fragrance. But a tentative sniff now found nothing of the cloying sweetness that had so disturbed him. 

He opened one eye to a narrow slit, then sighed his relief to find himself back on board the _Morning Angel_ , sprawled across the bunk in the master cabin. 

Moving with exaggerated care, he sat up, and took a deep breath. 

Arain Fer'mia was seated in the room's only chair, a separate darkness in the shadows of the room, illuminated only by reflections of Haven's unique light show visible through the convex viewport beside the bunk.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, as both wondered how to broach the subject. 

Finally, Fer'mia simply decided to jump in and test the waters. "How old were you?" 

"Fourteen." 

"Did they . . ." 

Obi-Wan shook his head. "No. At least, I don't think so. I think my Master saved me from 'The Fate Worse Than Death'. I seem to remember them saying that I was worth more if I was - untouched." 

"Must have been tough on you, at that age." 

Obi-Wan rose and steadied himself against the desk console. "Actually, until today, I didn't remember it." 

"What? How could you forget something like that?" 

"Oh, I remember the aftermath all right. And the beginning. It's just the middle that was always fuzzy. They gave me something; some kind of powerful drug. And they put a Force inhibitor on me. So all I really remembered, until now, was the initial attack, and getting taken by a crew of space pirates, and waking up weeks later in the Healers' Wing, recovering from a stab wound. Everyone tried to force me to remember, but either the drug was too strong, or I was just too stubborn to allow the memories to surface. Eventually, they just gave up and left me alone." 

The captain leaned forward and tried to read the Jedi's eyes in the near darkness. "I'm sorry to have to ask you this, Obi. I really am, but I think you know how important this mission is, so just figure me for an insensitive jerk if you want to, but I still have to ask. Does this . . ." A vague, all-encompassing hand gesture made his meaning clear, "in any way, make you unable to go ahead with our original plan? If you don't think you can handle it, I need you to say so - right now - and I guarantee you that no one will think any less of you for it." 

The young Jedi smiled. "Rain, if I were to let myself get scared off by something like this, I'd be a poor excuse for a man _or_ a Jedi - wouldn't I?" 

Fer'mia sighed. "I don't know, Kid. It would scare me pretty good." 

Obi-Wan smiled. "I didn't say it doesn't scare me; I said I won't let it scare me off." 

Now Fer'mia allowed himself a lop-sided grin. "There is no fear, hum?" 

The Jedi chuckled. "You've been reading too many tabloids. However, I do have one request." 

"Name it." 

"I would prefer not to have to pay another visit to Madam Gratta." 

__"No problem," replied the Captain._ _

__"Really?" Obi-Wan was obviously, though pleasantly surprised._ _

__"Really."_ _

"Well, that's good, then." 

Fer'mia moved toward the hatch. "I've left a set of orders for you on the helm console, rendezvous co-ordinates, mission oversight, etc. And I sent Jeb home to get a good night's sleep, since Solitaire has checked the security on this little boat and discovered that a stampeding herd of banthas couldn't even put a dent in her armor. So if Soli thinks you're safe here, I'm forced to agree." 

Obi-Wan sighed his relief. "Thanks. Jeb is very literal, in his interpretation of your orders. I almost had to stun him to keep him out of the fresher when I took a shower." 

The captain paused at the hatch. "He'll be back bright and early in the morning. And trust me when I tell you that you may have good cause to be grateful for his 'literal interpretations' before this is all over." 

"Rain?" 

"Yeah?" 

The young Jedi smiled. "Why'd you give in so easily? About Madam Gratta?" 

The captain grinned. "Because it's not important. You don't have to go to her, Obi; she's going to come to you." 

******************* ******************** ************* 

For some reason, which he could not quite define, the Garden of Sighs had become, of late, his favorite refuge from the disharmony of Temple life - disharmony that was growing more and more pronounced with every passing day, disharmony that had had its genesis in that curious episode of interrupted Jedi bonds and had escalated steadily ever since. Qui-Gon Jinn suppressed a sigh as, even here, deep in seclusion, he was not completely isolated from the thin patina of paranoia that had begun to flow across the surface of the Temple's public façade. 

In the days following that initial event, there had been two more such occurrences, two more 'periods of silence', as the padawans were terming them. Two more incidents, heavy with the potential for disaster. 

And more injuries, of course, all of them relatively minor. Thankfully, and somewhat miraculously, given the complexity and physical difficulty of many of the combat and training routines performed by padawans, Masters, and knights - no one had yet been seriously injured. But, if the episodes continued, it was surely only a matter of time.

Which was part of the crux of the problem. Every Master, every padawan, every knight, now - as he or she or it began to call on the Force to open bonds, to allow partners to function with one thought, one mind, to compliment each other's skills and abilities - every single one of them was assailed with the idea, no matter how briefly, that the bond might simply wink out of existence at any given moment. 

It was a thought that made it almost impossible to place full trust in either the Force, or in one's own bond partner, and the bonds between all Jedi were built on trust. Without the steadiness of the trust, the bonds would weaken inexorably, until, finally, they would simply cease to exist. And no one, at this point, had any idea whether or not they would be recoverable. 

So far, such bonding weakness had not resulted in tragedy, but such good fortune would not last forever. Unless the complex training katas and dueling routines were scaled back and suppressed, the chances of serious injury became ever greater. 

In addition to the risks inherent in the abrupt closure of the bonds, there was the residual effect; every incident seemed to leave the Master/Padawan links slightly more constricted, slightly less open to communication between the bond partners. 

No one spoke of it openly; the prospect was too grim, and no one wished to alarm the novices and initiates. But all Masters, knights, and most of the padawans had already come to realize the potential for disaster in these events. If matters continued to progress apace, the stability of the Jedi order itself might be put at risk. If the Jedi could no longer communicate through the Force, the next step, logically, might prove to be that they could no longer communicate _with_ the Force. 

Among the upper echelons of the Temple, there was, as yet, no panic; Qui-Gon Jinn could not conceive of that emotion among the stalwarts of Jedi serenity. But he had to admit that the possibility of being cut off from the Force, of being unable to hear its voice or seek its guidance, was enough to fill him with foreboding. And the sages of the order were currently involved in a whirlwind of activity, communing with each other, with the wisest of allies spread throughout the galaxy, and with the Force itself, in an attempt to find the cause - and the correct response - for these episodes. Qui-Gon could not remember any previous event that had stirred so much anxiety throughout the rank and file. 

The Master took a deep, cleansing breath. 

_I wonder if this has affected_ him. 

Qui-Gon actually gasped, so surprised was he by his own thought. What difference did it make, anyway, as _he_ was no longer a Jedi? 

And he deliberately ignored that tiny, maddening little voice deep within him that scoffed at his conclusions and insisted that _he_ was more Jedi than others who had no claim to the title - and always would be. 

Gradually, Qui-Gon became aware of birdsong in the air around him, and warm drifts of ivory petals from the boughs of the jacampa trees. This awareness was followed, immediately, by another; he was no longer alone. 

Citrus green eyes regarded him somberly but without discernable expression. 

"My Master," said Qui-Gon softly. "I trust you are well." 

"I am not. Nor are you." 

Master Jinn allowed himself a small smile. "On the contrary, Master, I am quite well." 

Yoda settled himself beside his former student and allowed his long ears to droop slightly. "Sick are we all, Qui-Gon," he insisted. "And you, perhaps, sicker than most." 

"But . . ." 

"Do not argue with me. Come here to argue, I did not." 

Qui-Gon nodded, knowing that he'd be better served by silence than by choosing the wrong word. 

"Your ward, where is he?" 

Qui-Gon frowned. "Why must you refer to him in that way?" 

Yoda leaned forward. "Because he is not your padawan, regardless of what you think. Now, where is he?" 

"He asked permission to swim in the lake this afternoon. I assume that poses no problem. He's not forbidden to make use of our facilities. Is he?" 

"Hmm," replied the tiny Master, "sarcasm does not become you. Tell me, Master Qui-Gon, has it occurred to you, at all, that these disturbances we've been experiencing only started after you brought these children here?" 

A light of cold amusement flared in midnight blue eyes. "Are you suggesting, my Master, that these younglings are responsible for these events? Why, I had no idea they could possibly be so powerful." 

"Just as I thought," retorted Yoda. "You 'had no idea'." 

"Master," protested the younger Jedi, "that's preposterous. These are _children_ , for the Force's sake. They can't possibly . . " 

"Know that," thundered the tiny Master, "you cannot." 

Qui-Gon rose abruptly. "I can't believe I'm hearing this. Is this the Council's view, as well? Or just your own?" 

"Know you," continued Yoda, as if Qui-Gon had not spoken, "that the little girl, Oomy, has been found injured and unconscious after each of these occurrences?" 

"No,"replied Qui-Gon. "I didn't know. But that only proves that she's a victim of the attacks, like everyone else." 

Huge citrus eyes rose to regard the towering Master with obvious skepticism. "Not everyone else develops a brain hemorrhage when happens, this does. The child, I believe, is innocent of any intent, but she is a catalyst for what is being done. A focusing agent." 

"That's preposterous. It's not even logical." 

"There are millions of beings," said Yoda softly, "who believe that the Force is just a Jedi fairy tale, that the belief in such an energy field is just 'preposterous'." 

Qui-Gon was not distracted; he knew where this was headed. "This has nothing to do with Xani. You're just looking for excuses to reject my request for him to be trained." 

"Believe that, do you?" asked the venerable Master slowly, staring into Qui-Gon's eyes. "Come so far from knowing what the Jedi are, have you, that you would believe this of me, of us?" 

"I have an obligation . . ." 

But Yoda had heard enough. "Speak not to me of obligations, Master Jinn. Turned your back, you did, on your most sacred oath. And now the time has come when you must face the consequences of your own actions." 

"What do you mean?" Master Jinn's voice was cold, unyielding. 

"The child, Oomy," replied Yoda, "has apparently recovered her memories of what happened on the night you dismissed Obi-Wan. She has requested an audience before the Council. You will attend, and bring the boy." 

"And if I refuse?" 

Something - a small flicker of light, perhaps - moved in large citrus eyes as the venerable Master responded. "What reason would you have for your refusal? If right you are, then you will be vindicated." 

"And if her motives are less than pure?" asked Qui-Gon. "She is, after all, a clone of the woman who would have been soul mate to _him_." 

Yoda chuckled. "Still can't say it, can you? Nevertheless, attend, you will. An official summons, this is. Think you that we are incapable of determining the truth - or lack of truth - in a child's mind? Thus far, we have hesitated to scan the minds of these children, for fear of alarming them unnecessarily. But matters have progressed too far now. We must see the truth." 

"I won't have him harassed," Qui-Gon said stubbornly. 

Yoda merely sighed. "You will bring him, or I will have a contingent of knights and Masters apprehend both you and him and escort you to the Council chamber at the proper time. Understood?" 

Qui-Gon knew it was pointless to resist and sheer folly to continue in this near insubordination. But it took everything he had to acquiesce, in something decidedly less than good grace. 

When Yoda made his exit, the towering Jedi sought to retreat once more into the serenity of deep meditation, but it was not to be. No matter how he tried to submerge his consciousness in the greater awareness of the Force, something - some nagging, annoying, little something - insisted on pulling him back into an awareness of the moment. 

Even his fingers seemed restless, curling and clinching without volition. He looked down abruptly, as he became aware that he was fidgeting with a small, smooth, slightly warm object - a stone - a river stone, pulsing with just the faintest glow of Force sensitivity. 

_His_ stone. His birthday stone. Now why, he wondered, had he pulled the stone from his pocket, and why was he still fingering it, as if somehow comforted by it miniscule pulsing warmth. 

And why couldn't he just throw the damned thing away? 

Impatiently, he pocketed the stone, rose, and strode from the garden, meditation forgotten. It was time, perhaps, to work off some energy. 

Surely there was someone around who was in the mood for a good fight. He knew that was not a very Jedi thought, but it was, nevertheless, a pretty accurate reflection of his state of mind. 

__******************* *************** *********************_ _

When Madam Gratta arrived aboard the _Lady Ghost_ , Obi-Wan had just finished securing the _Morning Angel_ in the larger ship's launch bay. He watched, askance, as the statuesque woman, dressed today in gray silk instead of black spangles, and her assistant arrived in the quarters set aside for what Arain Fer'mia called "The Transformation of a Padawan" with enough baggage to contain clothing for the entire crew of the _Lady_ for a month. 

"This can't," he observed to the hulking Corellian who was now his constant companion, "all be for me." 

"Wrong you are, Kiddo," said Palani Vau-Bremayne, huffing under the weight of a metal-bound trunk. "I'm told they couldn't quite decide what would be best for you, so they brought some of everything." 

Obi-Wan glanced at the ship's chrono hanging above the bay doors, and smiled wryly. "I hope she knows we're on a deadline here. Four hours, and me and my _Angel_ are out of here." 

Madame Gratta appeared in the open doorway of the small suite and beckoned to him coyly. "Step into my parlor, Darlin'," she said with a smile. "Four hours ought to do just fine, and you're not taking one step off this ship without me." 

"Now wait a minute," resisted the young Jedi. "This isn't any picnic we're going on. You could get hurt." 

She fixed him with a wistful smile. "You think only soldiers and Jedi fight for a cause, Little One? My girls and boys and I - we're not soldiers. We don't know about guns and weapons and killing. But we're Drimulans, nevertheless. We do what we can, to make life easier for the ones who fight our battles for us. And, once in a while, we get a chance to do something more. Like now. When I get through with you, Little Jedi, you're going to look like a royal courtesan - very rare, very expensive, very exclusive. Courtesans like that do not - trust me - wander around Moroon's looking for a score. They have handlers who do that for them, and watch out for their best interests. If this is going to work, you have to fit the pattern, and I'm part of the pattern." 

The Jedi turned inquiring eyes toward the Captain, who replied with a wry nod. 

Obi-Wan managed - somehow - not to groan. 

Arain Fer'mia grinned and signaled for his first mate to come closer. "Keep everybody out of here," he said softly as she bent her ear to hear him. "And be on your toes, cause I have an idea that some of our stalwart heroes are going to be ready to kill just to get a peek." 

Within the open hatch, the Captain could hear the murmur of conversation between the young Jedi, the Madam, her wardrobe assistant, and, much to Obi-Wan's chagrin, Rakoo, the Pholtchz healer, who seemed to have some rather extreme ideas on how to turn a Jedi into a hooker. 

"Call for you, Rain," said Zark Quebal. "Jhevaghn." 

The captain hurried to the comm unit, just as he heard the young Jedi bark, "You want to pierce what?" 

Fer'mia quickly engaged the privacy mode on the comm unit, deliberately suppressing his smile as Madam Gratta launched into her best (but fruitless, he thought) spiel about body piercings and their allure. Jhevaghn would definitely not be amused. 

"Just shut up and listen," said his cousin, the second her image flared before him. "I don't even know if I'll have time to complete this. But you need to be aware, there's a big time bitch from Off-World here. I couldn't get close enough to get details, but I think they're planning something, and it might be something to do with Twingira. She was asking about the meet. And, Rain, this one is pure, prime Bitch. You understand me? She's the worst kind of news, for all of us. So be careful. And make sure the kid knows about her. She strikes me as the kind that would love to get her hands on prime meat like that." 

Fer'mia sighed as he studied her shadowy face. "Yeah," she said softly. "I know. There was a time when I wouldn't have even known what things like that meant. Well, those times are gone. Just be sure you prepare him, cause he won't do you much good if he's either dead or playing lap dog to this bitch." 

"Thanks, Jhe," he said quietly. "Be careful." 

She managed a smile. "Way too late for that, Big Boy. Don't get dead." 

And she was gone. 

When Fer'mia disengaged the privacy shielding and exited the comm station, the volume within the 'transformation' suite had risen dramatically and continued to do so. 

As the captain gestured for Solitaire to join him in a quiet corner of the corridor, the argument appeared to escalate again, and Fer'mia sighed. He figured - correctly - that when a critical nexus had been reached at which Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi Apprentice and terminally polite young diplomat, could be reduced to shouting "No fucking way" at two women and a Pholtchz, they were rapidly approaching a point of no return, at which he would be forced to intervene. 

His conference with Solitaire was brief and to the point. Kenobi - with his Jedi training and abilities - was undoubtedly their greatest asset in the upcoming action, and would be doubly effective because his Force skills would be totally unexpected by the enemy. But his youth also made him vulnerable, and the Captain had no intention of losing his new secret weapon in the first flush of battle. Solitaire listened, made brief suggestions, and ultimately concluded the discussion by exuding the kind of calm and confidence that allowed Fer'mia to move on to concentrate on other problems. 

Which he did. It took him ten minutes of shouting, cajoling, begging, pleading, bribing and - finally - physical threats to restore order among the combatants and to make sure that (A) Obi-Wan would not skewer anyone with his lightsaber (for the moment, anyway.) (B) The Pholtchz healer would keep his teeth - and his tongue - to himself, or risk being skewered by aforementioned lightsaber. (C) Nobody was going to pierce anybody - anywhere - without express written consent. And (D) the young Jedi would allow certain intimate access to his person, as necessary to the transformation, and would agree - albeit reluctantly - that it was just not possible to wear underwear under leather pants that fit like they had been painted on. 

When Fer'mia emerged from the room, he found Palani Vau-Bremayne collapsed on the deck, helpless with laughter. After a minute, he simply slumped down beside her, with a helpless grin. "It's a dirty job," he laughed, "that nobody should have to do." 

Three and one half hours later, a figure emerged from the chamber, but, if any of the crew were hoping to get a glimpse of the transformed Jedi, they were doomed to disappointment, as he stalked through the ship's corridors, swathed and cowled, head to toe, in the midnight blue cloak that Jarielle had presented for his use on Coruscant. Not so much as a lock of hair escaped the darkness beneath the cape, as he, Jebbitz, Madam Gratta - redraped now in her customary spangled splendor - and Solitaire made their way to the docking bay and the _Morning Angel_. 

As the lovely little ship cleared moorings, Madam Gratta's assistant sprawled in the unbelievable bedlam of the site of Obi-Wan's makeover. When Arain Fer'mia stuck his head in the doorway, he found it incredible that so much chaos could result from working on the appearance of one man. Palani Vau-Bremayne just snickered. 

"Well?" he demanded. "I hope to hell it was worth it." 

The assistant's eyes were warm, and slightly wicked. "Would you like to see for yourself?" 

"How would I do that?" 

She grinned. "This kid was our masterpiece. You don't think we were letting him out of here without keeping a holo or two to remember him by, do you?" 

She waved her hand at a small viewer concealed among a clutter of cosmetic jars and tubs, and a small, perfect image formed above the surface of the table. 

For a moment, no one spoke. For a moment, it was doubtful that anyone could have. 

The assistant chuckled softly. "So was Gratta right? Or was she right?" 

"Son of a Sith," breathed Palani. "If he gets in the door before someone slams him up against the wall and tears his clothes off, I'll be bloody surprised." 

Fer'mia huffed a sigh. "That's what Solitaire and Jeb are for. To keep that from happening. Assuming they don't just join in the fun." 

"Sexy little bastard," said the assistant, "is going to start a riot like you've never seen before. We didn't even have to teach him how to walk the walk. He's a complete natural." 

__****************** ********************* *******************_ _

The "natural" had had more than enough time to worry about his appearance as he had piloted the _Angel_ through the chaos of hyperspace, then through the heavy traffic surrounding Twingira's second moon, which happened to house the galaxy's third largest casino. By the time he had settled his sleek little ship into its assigned berth, and secured it against the over-eager intrusion of techno-fanatics that would be completely enamored of something so radically new and different from more conventional vessels, he had adopted a new attitude. Which could be summed up in just four words: the hell with it. 

When he was once more engulfed in his cloak, he followed his companions out into the brilliance of the evening, his stride long and direct and speaking of nothing but confidence. 

If trade was the lifeblood of the Republic, gambling was its oxygen, and the huge casino was thronged all day, every day, by a combination of those who dreamed of striking it big and making their fortune, and those who already had, and longed to find diversions on which to spend it. Needless to say, in dealings with the sinfully rich and infamous, some of those diversions were of the less than legal persuasion. 

Drugs, alcohol, and sex were the order of the day and the night - and the day again, before, after, and during gambling sessions, in whatever order one chose. All were plentiful; most were exquisite; none were cheap. 

The ladies and gentlemen of the evening who plied their trade in this environment were the elite of the trade, or they would not be tolerated here. 

At the grand entrance to the main salon of the casino, a brace of Twi'lek bodyguards stood beside the massive double doors, their eyes in constant motion. When a small, compact individual, heavily armored, and a second person, built roughly like a rancor, approached the doors, the guards stepped forward and waved them to a stop. Weapons were presented, permits demanded and produced, and appropriate warnings given. 

Then the second two individuals of the same party stepped forward, and the guards looked suspiciously at the smaller of the two, who was completely obscured by a voluminous cloak. 

When one guard reached out to pull the cape aside, the second person, a large, fleshy woman with brassy blonde hair extended her hand abruptly and smiled. "Trust me, Friend," she said with a conspiratorial wink, "you can't afford this one. And you don't touch what you can't afford to pay for." 

She moved quickly and, shielding her companion with the bulk of her own body, she opened the cape and gestured for the guard to take a quick look. "That's all you get, Hon, but then again, that's all you need. I mean, assuming you're checking for concealed weapons, where would he conceal anything?" 

The twi'leks paused for just a moment, then laughed softly. 

"OK, Sweetness," said one of them as he reached to open the double doors, "strike your pose." 

Before Obi-Wan could ask, Gratta leaned forward and whispered in his ear. "When you step through this door, wait just a moment, and the lights are going to switch on. Wait for it, then drop the cape. Again you wait, just for a heartbeat or two, before you walk down the spiral ramp. The light will follow you, so make it good. This is their first look at you, and you want to make sure they get an eyeful. So remember what I told you. Do not grin. A slight smile or a full pout, if you prefer. And don't hurry. You want to strut down that ramp, not run and not bounce. When you get to the bottom, I'll be right behind you. And, for gods' sake, no direct eye contact, or you're going to start a brawl before we even get in the door." 

"Will Nanza be here?" he asked softly. 

"Somewhere nearby probably," she answered. "But his right-hand man is a Bith named Zotrulle. He's the one we'll target. But you let me worry about that. You just strut, and look adorable." 

She stifled a laugh as she caught the barest glimpse of his face as he turned toward the opening door, and though she was no mind reader - and had no trace of Force ability - she was pretty sure she knew what he was thinking. 

_Twenty years learning to be a Jedi, just to be told to 'strut - and look adorable'._

Obi-Wan took a deep breath and moved forward, two long strides and stopped. 

The lights, when they came up, were dazzlingly bright, much brighter than he had expected. 

And there was a second effect he had not expected. 

The room below him, which felt vast and cavernous, had been awash with sound. Suddenly, it was silent. 

He took another deep breath, and dropped the cloak and heard the entire room inhale sharply. 

The pool of light spilled over him, and every enhancement that Gratta and her assistants had made to his appearance had been geared toward the attention of such radiance. 

His hair had been recut into the same spiky softness he had worn throughout his padawan years, though without the braid or the pony tail, of course, and it almost glowed with color, a slightly richer copper than his customary ginger shade. At the nape of his neck, they had left it long enough for soft curls to form and follow the line of his throat. They had oiled and buffed his skin to a pale gold perfection, darkened his lashes to intensify the jewel tones of his eyes, and applied a permanent dye to his lips, not to color but just to emphasize their shape and fullness. They had also insisted, much to his chagrin, that his body had to be clean-shaven, everywhere, though he had balked sufficiently, finally, that they had backed off of areas not now exposed. 

He stood easily in the light, in trousers of oiled, black leather that fitted him like a second skin, trousers cut to ride low on his hips, that disappeared into knee-high boots of soft, crushed leather. A belt of similar leather, studded with silver medallions, circled his hips, reflecting light like a string of mirrors. His shirt was of midnight blue silk, so dark it would have appeared black except for the light that stroked it so lovingly. It was not tight, but it was very soft, and clung wherever it touched him. It was open all the way to his waist, and the gleam of buffed golden skin beneath it was enough to make throats go dry and lips part in admiration. 

At his throat was a leather collar, encrusted with Corellian sapphires, and a fine hoop of similar stones adorned one ear. 

Nothing, at his adamant insistence, had been pierced, but a faceted stone, filigreed in silver, winked in his navel, barely visible above the line of his trousers. 

A very soft, but completely triumphant, voice spoke behind him. "OK, Super star. Now Strut!" 

Obi-Wan started down the ramp, the light lingering on him lovingly, and the silence deepened as breaths were drawn and held. 

Until there was one tiny little sound, like a laugh that didn't - quite - happen. 

Obi-Wan, intent on strutting instead of just walking (although anyone familiar with his customary stride would have been hard put to tell the difference) looked up, searching for the source of the sound. 

And promptly broke most of the rules he'd been given. 

He grinned widely as his eyes settled on a vision in jeweled white who stood waiting at the bottom of the ramp. He found he couldn't resist the urge to send a really corny message. 

_What's a nice place like this doing around a girl like you?_

This time, the laugh came freely.

Ciara Barosse was devouring him with loving eyes as she replied to his greeting, in kind. _Oh, my Obi, if they could only see us now._

**************** ****************** *****************

TBC


	20. Darkness from Light

Chapter 20: Darkness from Light

_For I say this is death and the sole death, --_  
 _When a man's loss comes to him from his gain,_  
 _Darkness from light, from knowledge ignorance,_  
 _And lack of love from love made manifest._

_A Death in the Desert_ \--- Robert Browning

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

_He was lost, he thought._

_There was very little light, and what there was seemed twisted, somehow - distorted. As if seen through a warped glass. Pale reflections pierced the darkness occasionally, but they seemed to move very quickly, almost faster than the eye could discern. Particularly when he reached toward them. It was almost as if the light was repelled by his presence._

_He could neither see nor feel his body; how very strange. But he knew he was moving; knew the surface beneath his feet was smooth and seamless; yet knew also - somehow - that there were chasms in the darkness, chasms in which no light would ever dwell, chasms without bottom or end._

_He paused. His steps, until this point, had been sure and confident, guided by something within himself that he had had no need to examine or question. But now there were those chasms. Did he dare continue?_

_And there was that tiny little voice, deep in his mind, which said, "Do I dare not?"_

_He was aware of a great weariness, hovering over him, not quite touching - yet - but ready to enclose him in drifts of lethargy, if he would only allow it. It would probably feel wonderful just to sink into a cloud of nothingness, to enter a place which was its own destination, to journey no more._

_But that wasn't quite right, he knew. The journey was its own purpose; he had learned that - somewhere - from someone very close to him, someone who had shared the journey, step by step, from the days of his earliest memories._

_Except that there was no one now to share the journey. His fellow traveler traveled elsewhere now, sharing another's direction, another's purpose, another's destination._

_He edged forward, trying to penetrate the thick darkness around him, staring ahead - far ahead - and wondering if the blackness there before him was, perhaps, just a trifle thinner than that behind him. And was there really the palest glimmer of something ahead, like a single star engulfed with nebular drift. A very small star, but, just maybe, exceedingly bright._

_Beneath his foot, as he shifted his weight, he sensed a yawning emptiness, and froze. If he completed the step, if he continued forward, all would be lost._

_There should be help for him; he knew that. There should be a voice - a hand, a warmth, a presence. Those things had been a part of his consciousness for so long that he could not fathom why they were missing now. He had never before been without direction, without guidance._

_But if he remained here, in this great well of silent darkness, there would be no light. Ever._

_But if he fell . . . he almost laughed. There would still be no light._

_So his choice was darkness, or darkness. But in one choice of darkness, he had some small opportunity of stumbling onto a path back to where he had once dwelled. Where there was warmth, and guidance, and light._

_Still, he paused, trying to still his breathing, trying to reach out and touch that great presence that had always been so immediately available to him._

_The Force, he realized abruptly. Where was his connection to the Force? Why was it silent? Why had it withdrawn from him?_

_He stood absolutely still, and focused his thoughts on a single tendril of energy. One thought - centered, separated, pure. And smiled. He could not touch it, could not speak to it, could not use it or access it or manipulate it. But it was still there, waiting for him to find his way back to it._

_And there was something else, something sharing this moment with him. Something that brushed his thoughts, and directed his awareness toward the greater darkness hovering nearby._

_"Who are you?" he asked finally, surprising himself with the tranquil tone of his voice._

_There was a raspy chuckle. "The one who defeated you, Apprentice."_

_A third voice, more felt than heard, fell softly on his ear. "No one has defeated anyone - yet. The battle is yet to be fought."_

_He smiled; he'd have known that sweet, cultured deep-core accent anywhere. "Where are you?"_

_"Does it matter?"_

_Now it was his turn to chuckle. "If you're going to help me find my way out of this . . . wasteland, it does."_

_"Does it matter whether or not I am actually there with you, or if what is with you is but a memory of me? The result will be the same, for you need no guide, my friend. What you need is within you."_

_"I certainly can't just stay here."_

_The warmth in the disembodied voice was like sunlight on his face, even though it went unseen. "No. That would definitely not serve any purpose, yours, mine - or anyone else's. Except his, of course. It would suit him just fine."_

_"He did do this, didn't he?"_

_The lovely voice was filled with a sigh that was almost a sob. "Yes. He did. And you must stop him, my friend. You can, you know. You have the power, and you'll have some very powerful help. But you must first make the effort."_

_"Will you guide me?"_

_"I'm right beside you, but you don't need me for this. You never have."_

_A sudden thickening in the darkness swirled around him and tried to intrude itself between him and the warmth he clung to. "There is no one here," said the dark miasma. "You speak only to yourself, like a demented fool. No one will listen to you."_

_He smiled, for now he could hear the fear in that rough voice. "They will listen."_

_"You're alone," the darkness insisted. "He isn't coming back for you. He's found new friends."_

_The smile grew wider, and he felt the warmth infuse his body and ease his heart. "I have never been alone. I am Jedi."_

_"You're stumbling around, talking to yourself and lost in the dark. Some Jedi!" The gloating in the voice was unmistakable, but it was also - just slightly - desperate._

_"Wrong," he said with a soft laugh. "I was lost. Now I'm found, and your time is running out. I will stop you; we will stop you. And he will return to the place where he belongs."_

_"No, no, no! I won't listen to you. I won't let you. I'll stop you, and I'll . . I'll . . ."_

_"You'll what?" He found that he almost felt sorry for the little cretin. "You know you can't stop me, or her. And you'll never - never - defeat him."_

_"You're wrong!" It was almost a shriek now. "Come back here. Don't you walk away from me!! Come back here!"_

In the healers' wing of the great Temple, pale dawn light filtered through closed louvers, dropping lines of pastel radiance across the bed in which the dark-haired young man lay so quietly. There had been virtually no movement of his body for days, other than the gentle rise and fall of his breath; he remained deeply comatose, though the healers had been unable to determine the cause of his condition. Force trauma. That had been their initial - and final - diagnosis. But there was no one within the Temple who didn't know that this was merely a catch-all term; it had little actual meaning, though it was accurate enough, as far as it went.

Something within the Force, or someone using the Force, had damaged the apprentice's connection to that great energy source, and there was absolutely no way of determining how severe the injury was. Particularly now, since his link to his Jedi Master had been obliterated.

Now there was the slow pulse of his respirations, and the interminable wait for a sign - any sign - that he would find his way back to where he had been before. And this, unfortunately, was the only option. Without an open bond, or an open connection to the Force, no one could go in after him.

Healer Soljan suppressed a sigh as she watched the boy and reflected on his condition. In truth, Mirilent thought that there was one person - only one - who might have reached him, for theirs was a bond that predated training bonds and Force links; theirs was the bond of childhood friendship. 

When she felt an urge to sigh again, she made no effort to stifle it. Obi-Wan might have reached Garen, even without the Force. But Obi-Wan was gone, too; gone just as surely as Garen was gone.

Healer Soljan couldn't remember when she had ever been so angry: angry at the Jedi, angry at Fate, angry at her own helplessness; angry at boneheaded Jedi Masters.

She leaned forward to fluff the boy's pillow, just in time to hear his breath catch in his chest and to see his eyes jerk open.

Mirilent Soljan, healer extraordinaire, stoic, self-acknowledged cynic, Jedi Master, squealed like a pinched piglet, as she noted that there was no confusion or uncertainty in irises so dark they were virtually indistinguishable from pupils. He had been comatose; now he was awake. There was almost no period of transition between the two states.

As she stroked his forehead with gentle fingers, he gripped her forearm with a trembling hand, and tried to speak. In the end, he managed only a whisper, but it was sufficient.

"I need to see the Council, now!"

She smiled. "Funny you should mention that."

 

******************** ***************** ***********

 

The main lounge of Moroon's Casino was officially called the Promenade, which, given the primary activity practiced within the vast chamber, was not altogether inappropriate; it was definitely the perfect site for the young and beautiful to walk their walk, and flaunt their wares, for the edification (and temptation) of the rich and famous. For the same reason, the regular patrons of the club referred to it by its more colloquial (and more prosaic) nickname - the Flesh Pot.

Arain Fer'mia lounged at the free-form bar that meandered along one side of the room, and sipped at a tankard of K'Lkarian stout, his eyes sweeping the room before him.

Of course, it would have taken an extremely keen eye, as well as a certain facility in penetrating camouflage, for anyone to have recognized the Drimulan. Through a judicious use of theatrical make-up, various dyes, hairpieces, and prosthetic devices, the 'Ghost' had been transformed into a bearded, gray-skinned Binollt, with a mane of platinum hair, impressive facial ridges, and a pair of spiral-shaped horns, curving upward from his temples. The disguise was far from comfortable, but it did have one advantage; the glittering black contact lenses served to conceal completely the focus and movements of his eyes.

He quickly checked the position of his team members, from Palani's spot at the end of a row of slot machines, to Zark Quebal's seat at a table near the musician's alcove, where he conversed quietly with two members of their intelligence squad. Others were scattered throughout the crowded lounge, and more were posted at various strategic spots around the huge casino. In all, they numbered twenty-one, not counting the contingent from the _Morning Angel_ , the contingent that was just making its appearance now.

Fer'mia looked up, and was forced to bite down - hard - to suppress a grin as he remembered the words of Madam Gratta's assistant: Kenobi was a natural, and projected the perfect aura of arrogance in assuming (correctly) that every eye in the crowded lounge would be intimately involved in following his progress down the spiral ramp. His posture was a perfect blend of confidence and sensuality, and there was a very soft collective inhalation from his audience. And there was no mistaking that either. This disparate group of individuals, comprised of races from all corners of the galaxy and motivated by as many different reasons as there were stars within the great swarm, were, nevertheless, molded together into an audience for this one moment; he held them in the palm of his hand, and the grin that graced his face was a masterstroke of impudence.

The Drimulan realized simultaneously that the grin was very non-courtesan in its brilliance and sincerity, and that it was no part of the act, for, much to the chagrin of the Ghost (renowned galaxy-wide for his keen perceptions) he belatedly recognized the lovely figure ensconced at the bottom of the ramp. Fer'mia allowed himself a sizeable gulp of stout. How had he - how could he possibly - have overlooked the fact that a Jedi padawan, not to mention a drop-dead gorgeous Jedi padawan, had been on the premises when he arrived? Nor had she been hovering in the shadows, for, now that he had identified her, he remembered that he had noticed her loveliness earlier. He just hadn't made the connection. Which really perturbed him.

He turned from the bar as Kenobi was approaching the bottom of the ramp, and, the next moment, became even more perturbed as Ciara Barosse turned sable eyes in his direction and allowed him the faintest glimpse of her amusement; she not only had recognized him; she had known that he had not recognized her.

 _Jedi!_ he thought with bitter resentment. Then he looked once more at the boy and the girl now almost abreast of each other, and he was forced to fight to hold on to his breath. By the gods, they were beyond beautiful! Both of them. Singly, either comprised a radiant vision of youthful perfection. Together, their beauty was actually painful to behold, like a keen blade that pierced the heart and the mind so effortlessly that one never noticed its intrusion until the thrust was accomplished and the damage, done.

If Kenobi was the very epitome of what every woman would want to find tucked in her bed, the girl's image followed a different tack. In this particular guise, Kenobi was fire and sensuality; Ciara, on the other hand, was ice and innocence. With her gleaming hair piled in a mass of curls at the back of her head, ivory skin blushed with excitement, dark, heavy-lashed eyes sparked with stars of exuberance, and generous rose-tinted lips just parted to reveal perfectly straight, white teeth, she was exquisitely virginal, and Fer'mia thought he had never seen a sexier woman in his entire life, or one that would inspire more erotic fantasies. The Drimulan grinned, as he suddenly realized that the effect she was creating was, almost certainly, not the one her Master had had in mind when preparing her for this mission. The drift of white in which she was dressed had undoubtedly been meant to make her appear aloof and untouchable; instead, she looked vulnerable, and delicious.

Where, wondered the Drimulan, was her Master, and how was he handling the (probably belated) realization that his 'urchin' had suddenly blossomed into an ingenue? 

Fer'mia once more swept the room with his eyes, and - Aha! - there. He was very good, was this Jedi Master. Very skilled at controlling his body language, and projecting an image of casual interest. But the eyes betrayed him, to one who knew what to look for. Eyes just slightly too intense, too focused, too locked on one particular face, one particular place. Fer'mia smiled, and would have offered a silent commiseration had the Master deigned to look his way.

He turned back to watch the remainder of Kenobi's entrance, and, although Fer'mia could almost see and taste the thickness of the bond that existed between the two young Jedi, he quickly realized that no one else had noticed their connection. The smile that each wore could - and would - be interpreted as no more than the excitement of the moment, or the avarice of a lustful heart. In this setting, anything more would be unthinkable.

Kenobi continued past the girl, moving at the direction of Madam Gratta, who was careful to stay close enough to intervene in any potential encounter, but distant enough not to detract from the impression he created. And what an impression! As he turned his head to look over his shoulder at his 'handler', a stray beam of light caught his profile and illuminated his face as he caught his bottom lip between perfect teeth, and Fer'mia, again, stifled a smile. He might, he thought, at some time in his life, have come across a more wanton image, but he couldn't remember it. The boy looked as if he had been bred for no other purpose than giving - and taking - pleasure.

Fer'mia was slightly surprised when the Madam nudged Kenobi in his direction and nodded for him to seat himself beside the Drimulan.

Looking neither right nor left, with lips unmoving, the young Jedi still managed to project an impression of a smile, and said - very softly, "Hey, there, Big Boy. Come here often?"

"No," Fer'mia replied, also softly. "Too damn many Jedi."

"Spot them both?"

The Captain merely nodded.

Obi-Wan turned to his "management team" - both Gratta and Solitaire were covering his back now, with Jebbitz loitering, very flagrantly, nearby - and asked, "Can I drink something?"

"Wine only, Love," said the Madam. "I don't think you want to be incapacitated. Do you?"

Solitaire had been scanning the lounge continuously, and now leaned forward. "Customer on your six, Kid. Watch your step."

Madam Gratta turned at once to intercept the new arrival, but it would have taken a lot more than one semi-determined madam to deflect the guided missile that was aimed at Obi-Wan's winsome body.

"May I help you?" asked Gratta, forcing herself to suppress a shudder.

"You can't," said the Gamorrhean woman, swathed in bilious green spangles, "but I'm pretty sure _he_ can."

Without preamble she reached out and placed her hands on either side of Obi-Wan's waist and lifted him a full meter into the air, clearing the back of his bar stool easily.

Acting on nothing more than sheer reflex, the young Jedi twisted himself free of those bruising fingers and landed in a posture that was curiously provocative, despite being a flagrant fighting stance. He relaxed immediately, realizing his mistake, and had cause to be grateful to Solitaire's quickness. Given the size - and brightness - of the polished blade that had appeared in the Weapons Master's hands, and the amazing quickness with which it had been brought to rest against the Gamorrhean woman's third chin, no one had much attention to spare for the body language of the object of her desires.

"I have money," bellowed the Gamorrhean. "I can pay for him. I have money."

Madam Gratta leaned forward. "You think I'd let someone like you touch my pride and joy? There's not enough money in the galaxy to get me to put him in your clutches. Not likely, you great lump of bantha fodder."

The buxom blonde straightened, and made a great show of rearranging Obi-Wan's clothing, managing, all the while, to bare just a bit more skin, and to touch him with just enough suggestiveness to stimulate nipples and cause the blood to rise in his face.

"Will you stop?" he managed to hiss, finally.

"If you want them to believe the charade, Darlin'," she muttered, "you gotta give 'em the full show."

"Excuse me," said a soft, cultured, lyrical voice.

As one, the group turned to regard the vision now focussed on the young Jedi.

She ignored everything and everyone, not an easy task, when one considered that everything and everyone included an armored figure holding a saber to the throat of a Gamorrhean, and looked only into Obi-Wan's eyes.

"Yes," he replied, offering only a hint of a smile.

She extended one delicate hand. "Would you like to dance?"

He smiled, as Gratta looked mutinous. "Sorry, Love," said the Madam. "He's . ."

"Dying to dance with you," Obi-Wan interrupted, grasping the lovely hand, which, though enticingly small and white, had some surprisingly tough calluses, in places commonly associated with the handling of a sword.

They fit together like hand in glove, her virginal purity a polar opposite to his dark heat.

"What," she whispered, as they moved out onto the miniscule dance floor, "are you doing in that get-up?"

He sighed. "It's a long story."

"Obi-Wan, you look like a prostitute."

He grinned. "That's the idea, or so I'm told."

The music was slightly primitive - percussion driven - and they moved together beautifully, seductively. "Who's your mark?" she asked with a sigh. "Somebody obviously has a taste for young, lovely - and male."

"Ummm," he said softly, inhaling deeply. "You smell wonderful."

"Stop that," she answered. "You're being charming again."

"No, I'm not. I just haven't had much chance to smell a real girl lately."

"Umhmm," she retorted. "If you don't start giving me some answers, this real girl is going to slam her knee where you don't want it, and given the tightness of those pants, aim is not going to be a problem."

"You're never going to catch a man," he observed gruffly. "You know that?"

"Why on earth would I want to 'catch' a man?" she responded.

He sighed. "Never mind. As your devious little mind has obviously figured out, we're here, probably for the very same reason you are. I assume you traced the seller?"

She smiled. "And you traced the buyer. You're right, except that I could never quite pin down what the merchandise is."

He leaned back and looked down into her elfin face, and wished, for a moment, that he didn't have to tell her. It was curious to feel so protective of someone who was - in all ways - his equal, as both a Jedi and a warrior. "Slave tags," he said softly. "The latest, greatest model."

He saw and understood the horror in her eyes. Slavery was definitely a reality in the galaxy, but it was something foreign to those born under the protection of the Republic, something foul and perverted, like a misshapen mushroom thriving in some noxious dungeon. It was a concept impossible for free beings to understand.

"To be used on the Drimulan people," she breathed.

He nodded, then ventured a very small smile. "The Council sent you to help."

"More or less," she answered. "They sent us to get the proof we need, to expose what's going on on Drimula as a conspiracy between the mining consortium, the Drimulan power brokers, and certain firms and corporate entities within the Republic. If we can get that and demonstrate that Off-World was instrumental in setting it up, that should be enough to swing public opinion and force the politicians to take definitive action."

He wrinkled his nose in disgust. "You know, I'm really beginning to hate that word."

"Conspiracy?" she asked.

"Politicians," he answered, grinning. "So who are you supposed to be?"

She did a very creditable impersonation of a royal personage looking down her nose at a peon. "Lady Deria Organa, Duchess of Alderaan, at your service, Sir. And you?"

He chuckled. "Just your common, garden-variety little whore, custom designed to appeal to the less-than-savory appetites of one Nanza the Hutt."

She grinned up at him. "My Master is having a terrible time keeping from rolling on the floor in a fit of laughter."

Obi-Wan turned and fixed a certain swarthy Jedi, made up now to look like an Alderaanian prince, with an icy glare. Ramal just grinned and tossed off another shot of Corellian brandy.

Ciara looked up into her friend's face, and impulsively traced her fingers across his jaw and over the cleft of his chin. "Let me clue you in on a little secret, my Obi," she said softly. "You may succeed in passing yourself off as a little whore, but you will never - on the worst day of your life - manage to be common garden-variety _anything_."

The music was coming to an end, and she let her eyes sweep the chamber around them. "Your audience is very attentive," she whispered, then let her gaze drift downward. "When did you learn to dress like that, and where in the galaxy did you get this stuff?"

He chuckled. "You'd be amazed what you can pick up at your local brothel. Why? You like it?"

She giggled. "Unfortunately, you don't do a thing for me, Ducky, but you are definitely hot. And, unless I miss my guess, that Bith gentleman making his way over here is the head honcho for a certain repulsive lizard king. Looks like you've got 'em circling the bait."

The music ended, and he swung her into a dip, as she laughed breathlessly, and Arain Fer'mia and Palani Vau-Bremayne exchanged glances. Neither could remember ever seeing anything quite so lovely, but neither would ever verbally admit it, either.

The Bith was deep in conversation with Madam Gratta as Obi-Wan returned to the bar, having escorted Ciara back to her Master. The Madam reached for him, somewhat possessively as he drew near, and Obi-Wan was somehow gratified when Jebbitz, who had taken up a place at the end of the bar, reached out and pulled the young Jedi back out of the circle of the woman's capacious grasp, and put a tankard of ale in his hand.

"Ben," she crooned, getting into her role a bit more intensely than Obi-Wan would have liked, "this is Zotrulle. He has a client, who would very much like to meet you."

"Ben" observed the Bith with something very like distaste. Madam Gratta, he was willing to stipulate, knew how to run a brothel; probably knew how to negotiate for absolute prime pay. But Obi-Wan knew Hutts, knew what they liked, and what they didn't; knew what they would tolerate and what drove them to extremes. Hutts, he had realized as a very young man, loved insolence, mainly because it gave them such pleasure to destroy it.

"Then why," he said, after taking a long draught of his ale, "doesn't the 'client' have the balls to speak for himself?"

Zotrulle shook with the breathy wheeze that passed for laughter among his species. "In point of fact, young Ben, my client has no balls."

Obi-Wan allowed himself a chuckle, and a wicked look from beneath lowered lashes. "A woman then."

The Bith laughed harder. "Oh, no. Definitely not a woman."

The young Jedi smiled. "Then, if you don't mind my asking, what in the name of the gods of the Core does he, she, or it want with me? I mean, do you think I dress like this to keep warm?"

Zotrulle allowed his eyes to slide slowly down the boy's provocative torso, and Obi-Wan, suppressing an urge to snarl, didn't even have to access his Jedi senses to read the cretin's thoughts. The Bith then darted forward, and only barely avoided being scalped by Jebbitz when Obi-Wan raised a restraining hand to allow Nanza's agent to approach. The huge Corellian, however, while obeying the Jedi's gesture to stand down, did not exactly back off, and the Bith had sufficient good sense to tremble slightly as he 'inspected' the merchandise.

"My Master will be most pleased," he said finally, "and you, young one, might become very rich. And spoiled. And pampered."

Obi-Wan grinned, to Gratta's intense displeasure. "Who do I have to kill?"

The Bith wheezed his amusement. "Oh, no, your sweet little hands will be otherwise occupied. To use such a lovely creature for such disagreeable chores would be a terrible waste of talent."

Obi-Wan maintained the grin - somehow - while entertaining dark thoughts of ripping the Bith's huge liquid eyes out of their sockets. He didn't, at all, like the way the cretin said, "talent". 

And he thought that he might just be forced to 'overreact', if Nanza's agent sniffed at him one more time.

He closed his eyes briefly, and reached for the serenity of the Force, to help him to release all the negativity flowing around and through him.

Strangely, he found Jebbitz's presence to be a calming influence, as the gentle giant stood motionless at his shoulder - motionless and immovable, like a great monolithic stone. It was a comforting image.

Obi-Wan opened his eyes, serenity achieved. And renewed his focus on his mission. "Then I think it's time I met your Master."

The Bith paused for a fraction of a second, and Obi-Wan caught a glimpse of the shrewd individual beneath the oily façade. Without missing a beat, the young Jedi carefully reinforced the image of the hedonistic narcissist that he wished Zotrulle to see. After a moment, his efforts were successful, but he made a mental note not to underestimate the Bith in the future. Brutal, callous, and arrogant, Zotrulle undoubtedly was, but stupid he was not.

As Obi-Wan and his retinue rose, the Bith's eyes widened in protest. "You can't . . ."

But Madam Gratta was in her element, and knew that, even in such dealings, there was a certain protocol to be followed. She leaned forward, interjecting her rather massive torso between Obi-Wan and the Bith, and favored Zotrulle with a predator's smile. "Until he's bought and paid for, Dearie, he doesn't take a single step, without protection. You know that, as well as I."

"But . . ."

"Oh, please," she retorted, eyes rolling. "Surely, you're not going to tell me you expect me to let _this_ run around this din of iniquity, all alone."

The Bith drew a deep breath. "Very well, but we must hurry. My Master has some rather important business meetings scheduled. His time will be short. I assume you will be content. . ." he didn't bother trying to conceal the contempt in his face as he gazed at Gratta "with the customary finder's fee."

Gratta chuckled. "Maybe you better take another look at the - um - merchandise, Chum. There's absolutely nothing 'customary' about him. This is strictly one of a kind."

And, now, for the first time, the Bith appeared slightly nervous. "Exactly how 'one-of-a-kind' do you consider him to be?"

Gratta lifted an eyebrow at Obi-Wan, who took the hint (no matter how much he wanted to throttle the woman.)

The young Jedi leaned forward and spoke into the Bith's low-slung ear. "I'm very, _very_ good at business meetings. Sometimes, people even forget what they're supposed to be doing because they're too busy watching me."

Zotrulle lifted a blunt-fingered hand, and traced the line of the boy's chin. "I don't doubt it," he answered, after a moment.

Obi-Wan smiled. "Perhaps you'd care for a demonstration?"

Madame Gratta's lips were twitching strangely as she reached up to adjust the collar that circled Obi-Wan's throat, allowing her to murmur directly in his ear. "Are you absolutely sure you've never done this before?"

"I believe a demonstration," said the Bith, forestalling any answer the Jedi might have made, "would be in order. Follow me, please."

Beautiful, starlit dark eyes followed the procession as they made their way toward the heavily guarded entrance to the private executive suites that occupied upper tiers on three sides of the vast lounge, and Obi-Wan had to bite his lip to keep from laughing his response to the message blaring in his mind.

_I'd tell you to watch your ass, but the view from here suggests that any attempt to do that would only be redundant, as it's already being watched by every warm body in the room. And, by the way, where is your lightsaber, or do I even want to know?_

His answer was succinct. _No._

 

****************** **************** ********************

 

By the time the Witch's Moon had settled gently into its prime berth in the section of the spaceport reserved for prestigious guests, the interior of the luxury yacht looked more like the site of a disaster than the temporary quarters of royalty. 

There had been no disaster. There had, however, been a perception of disaster, by the Princess of Telos, who had then proceeded to provide the physical effects, for both the interior décor, and the persons subject to her wrath. Which was prodigious.

Just ten hours out of Drimula, the hyperdrive motivator of the yacht had gone off-line, giving rise to the Princess' rage. Then, adding insult to injury, the spare motivator had proven faulty as well, necessitating an emergency call to the Drimulan Orbital Forces. In all, the yacht had drifted for almost thirteen hours before the thoroughly browbeaten crew had managed to complete repairs. 

N'Vell Aji would never realize how fortunate she was, for the crew - to a man - had pledged total, unequivocal mutiny if another delay had occurred. None among them, including the captain, had been willing to tempt fate any further. They all felt compelled to count their blessings that they had survived the disaster relatively unscathed.

Relatively.

There had been two broken arms, several cracked ribs, a skull fracture and more bruises, contusions, and concussions than anyone wanted to count.

That was the tentative total among those charged with the personal care of the Princess and her guests. It did not include the injuries of Vicselle, her Twi'lek slave girl, who had not been seen or heard from since the initial episode.

It also did not include the incredible amount of damage to the ship's interior.

When N'Vell stood at the external hatch, waiting to debark, the captain of the very expensive, exquisitely appointed vessel stood beside her, struggling to contain his shock and dismay at the amount of damage to the ship.

He was Telosian, and thus, no mere mercenary, but rather, a follower in the footsteps of his father and grandfather before him. Both of those stalwart souls had served proudly in the ranks of the liveried defenders of Telosian royalty.

Brample Needa wondered if those so defended by his ancestors had ever behaved in such a fashion.

"You will see to it that it is cleaned, repaired, and refurbished," said N'Vell coldly. "By the time I return."

He cleared his throat. "May I ask . . ."

"No, for I have no idea. An hour, a day, a week. You will know when I return."

He took a deep breath. "Yes, My Lady."

She seemed to be gazing off into the near distance, lost in consideration. Then she smiled, but there was ice in her eyes. "And make sure that the brig section is fully functional. It's possible that I might have a guest, when we depart."

"As you wish, My Lady."

At that moment, Maleonaka Sirvik stepped into the lock, not bothering to conceal his distaste at the chaos around him.

"Really, N'Vell," he said irritably, "you might have left something intact. I haven't had a decent bath in days, since you damaged all the plumbing lines."

She turned to stare at him, eyes narrowed. "Be grateful I stopped there," she replied. "What I really wanted to sever was blood vessels. I've waited too long for this, to be foiled by a faulty drive component."

"Calm yourself, My Dear," he said smoothly. "You've arrived in plenty of time, as I assured you you would."

"Yes," she said softly. "Plenty of time."

When the hatch hissed open, she looked up at Needa and favored him with a genuine smile. "Spare no expense, Captain. I want it restored. No, I want it better than restored." She thought for a moment, before continuing. "You'll find Vicselle in my private quarters. Tell her to redo it all, in jewel-toned silk. Real silk. No synthetics. Russet and gold, emerald and ruby. Tell her it better be perfect, or I'll finish what I started."

She turned and laughed into the surprised face of Mali Sirvik. "Don't you agree, Mali? Won't that set him off perfectly? A perfect framework, for the perfect little morsel."

Sirvik nodded, finding it all too easy to picture in his mind. "Delectable, my pet."

She nodded. "Oh, and, Captain, make absolutely sure that the cameras are working. All of them. If we're going to stage the command performance of Obi-Wan Kenobi, I want to be sure we catch it from every possible angle."

Brample Needa, only recently promoted to his captaincy; husband, father of two boys, fiercely devoted to his Telosian heritage, watched the sole remaining heir to the Telosian throne walk down the exit ramp, her beauty as bright and sharp as a honed blade, polished and set off perfectly by a gown of royal blue moire silk, beaded with garnet and dark pearls. He thought for a moment about his family, his sons who would some day, perhaps, follow in his footsteps, as he had done in those of his own father.

He looked around him, noting the degree of destruction, and sighed.

He had sought to serve a noble cause, but nobility on Telos was, somehow, in short supply these days. History had stumbled and strayed from its correct path somewhere along the way.

This was no longer the saga of the royal family.

This was just melodrama; cheap, tawdry, unworthy.

He went to the comm unit to arrange for the repairs and transformation of the ship.

He would continue to be a part of the melodrama; he had no choice. The Princess did not accept resignations. She preferred terminations, of an extremely permanent variety.

 

********************* *************** ******************

 

The summons came very early, while much of the Temple was still sleeping, and it came in the form of a personal message, hand-delivered.

Padawan Jois-Pom Vilba stood respectfully before a door on which the placard read "Jinn/Kenobi", and paused. The story of the dismissal of Senior Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi had already traveled around the Temple's gossip circuit so many times that it had been distorted beyond all reason, so distorted that it no longer bore any resemblance to the truth. But Padawan Vilba doubted that it was so far off the mark that there was any rational explanation for the continued presence of that name tag.

The Bothan padawan straightened her robe self-consciously, before engaging the door signal.

When Qui-Gon Jinn himself answered the summons, she managed, barely, to hold on to her composure and avoid making a total fool of herself. She hoped.

"Master Jinn," she said solemnly, "your presence is requested by the Council. And you are directed to bring your ward, Xani of Telos, with you."

Qui-Gon looked unutterably weary, the girl thought. As if he had slept poorly, if at all. His hair was wild and unkempt, and there were huge, dark circles under his eyes.

"When?" was all he said.

Her expression was sympathetic. "Immediately, Master. I'm sorry."

He seemed to remember himself, and regarded her with a gentle smile. "You have no cause to be sorry, Padawan," he replied. "I'm afraid I allowed myself to oversleep. Will you advise the Council for me, that I will be along presently, with my ward?"

The shadows were still thick in the common room as Qui-Gon moved toward the smaller of the two bedrooms. He could hear the sound of soft snoring as he pushed the door open and leaned inside.

And almost - almost - crashed to his knees, as a trick of light and imagination splashed his mind with an image ripped from memory. A stray beam of crystalline morning sunlight had been snared and reconfigured by a glass of balim juice - clear, rust-colored liquid - on the nightstand by the bed, and splashed across the pillow on which the boy lay, face down. But the enhanced color of the light turned the dark strands on his head to glints of bright copper, and the years seemed to flex, and fall away, and resume their normal progression at a time when brilliant sea-change eyes and ginger hair had been the norm in this crowded little chamber.

Qui-Gon paused to calm his thoughts, but when he opened his eyes, he found himself impaled on a gaze bright with anger and resentment.

"Xani," he said softly,"we must go."

"It's never going to end," said the boy, almost without inflection. "You're never going to let him go. Until he dies. Are you?"

Qui-Gon moved into the room and knelt by the edge of the bed. "Xani, don't say that, please. He is yet a very young man. He will live for many years."

The Master almost recoiled at the swell of dark power he felt writhe within the boy. "You don't know that, Master. He could die today. You just don't know."

"Xani," said the Master softly, "why do you say that? Do you know something that I don't?"

Xani sat up in the bed and regarded the towering Jedi Master solemnly. "I probably know a lot of things that you don't," he answered coldly.

"Such as?"

"Such as how you really feel about him, about your precious padawan."

"Xani," replied Qui-Gon, "as of this moment, I have no padawan. Not yet."

"So why do you get upset if I say he might die today?"

Qui-Gon rose and went to the window. "It upsets me that you might wish for such a thing. He is gone, and no threat to you. To feel such envy and hatred is not the Jedi way."

But rebellion flared in Xani's eyes. "No. That's not it. That's not why you get upset. You still love him."

The Master stared out into the clarity of early morning. "He was my responsibility for a very long time. I would not want to learn that he had been harmed."

For a moment, the room was silent, and both of them seemed to be hearing the echo of the Master's words, and noticing how hollow they seemed.

"We must go, Xani," said Qui-Gon finally, turning sharply away from both the morning and any shard of memory.

"Go where?"

"We've been summoned by the Council."

"Now? At this hour?"

"Now."

The boy huddled deeper into his blankets. "No. I won't go."

Qui-Gon leaned forward and brushed the curls back from the boy's face. "We have no choice, Little One. But please, don't borrow trouble. Perhaps they have finally relented in their reluctance to allow your training."

"Yeah," grumbled the child. "And perhaps they've finally figured out a way to make banthas fly."

The Master smiled. "Perhaps. But come along now. Whatever they want, it is never a good idea to keep them waiting."

"I'm hungry," the boy whined, dragging himself from the bed.

"We'll have time for a leisurely breakfast after we see the Council," the Master replied, sounding confident and serene which, he thought, was rather remarkable, for he was, in truth, neither.

Though the child continued to grumble and complain, he still managed to dress himself quickly, and it was but a matter of minutes before the two of them were striding quickly through the almost deserted corridors of the great Temple. As they neared their destination, Xani seemed to flag, his steps slowing and his manner becoming more and more reluctant.

There was no one in the reception area outside the Council chamber when they arrived, and Xani was quick to remark that maybe someone had just made a mistake, and they were not expected at all.

When the massive double doors leading into the Chamber swung open under a gentle but unmistakable Force push, it became obvious that such was not the case.

The absence of anyone else, outside the Council members and the principals involved in this proceeding, was deliberate, and the reasons would quickly become obvious.

"Enter, you will," came the most recognizable of the Council's voices.

Qui-Gon took a moment to lay a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder, then strode forward to assume his customary spot in the center of the great circle. As always, he held himself with great dignity and tranquility, which faltered not at all, until he looked around the circular chamber, and spotted three individuals who would ordinarily have had no place in such proceedings.

He doubted not at all, however, that they had a place in these. A strange restlessness seemed to settle over him, tugging at his consciousness, pulling at his deliberation.

Xani, who had marched into the chamber at his side, exhibiting a great deal more pride and self-satisfaction than any Jedi would have deemed appropriate, remained unaware of their presence, until Master Qui-Gon nodded a very slight greeting toward the unexpected guests.

Xani glanced and froze, and the aura of confidence and pride splintered like a sheet of ice beneath a battering ram.

"What - what are they. . .", he tried to say.

"Easy, Child," said Qui-Gon. "There is no danger here."

Master Yoda sat in his custom-fitted chair, and regarded both Qui-Gon and the boy with great compassion. "Not exactly true, that is," he said finally. "Much danger, there may be. The question is . . . to whom?"

Qui-Gon steadied the boy with both hands, as he turned to face the heart of the Council. "You sent for us, My Masters?"

"We did," replied Master Mace Windu, a great sadness visible in his soft, dark eyes. "The time has come to resolve a situation which has become intolerable. More than that, it has become dangerous, and beyond the comprehension of most of us. We have come to believe that the survival of the Jedi could be at stake."

"And how could this possibly concern this boy?" demanded Master Jinn. "You are frightening him, for no cause."

Master Yoda studied the boy for a moment, then looked up into the face of the Master. "Frightened, the boy is not. Frightened, are you."

"That's not . . ."

"Enough!" said the diminutive Master. "Argue this, we could, for all eternity. But no more time is there, to spare. Waited too long, have we, for you to come to your senses and see that which lies within you. Within you, the answers have always been, and we hoped that, in time, you would choose to look at them."

The tiny Master moved forward and gazed up at the towering Jedi who had once been his own beloved padawan. "Blinded yourself, you have. And left us no option."

"What do you mean?" demanded Xani suddenly, fear rising in his eyes as movement from the side of the room caught his attention.

"You can't," the boy cried suddenly. Then he turned to face the tiny child who was walking so inexorably toward him. "You can't," he shouted, hands moving as if to hurl handfuls of darkness toward her.

To his chagrin - and amazement - nothing happened.

He glanced up and saw the unbroken circle of Jedi Masters standing around them, their hands uplifted and stretched to encompass all directions.

Oomy continued to move forward, and now she was joined by Healer Soljan, supporting a very pale, very weak, but very determined Padawan Muln.

Master Yoda had moved forward again, until he was standing directly in front of the boy, who was himself, standing directly in front of Qui-Gon.

"Kneel, you will," said the ancient Master. "Encircled now, you are by the power of the Living Force. Into this circle, no darkness may intrude."

With a small gasp that might have been a sob, Xani sank to his knees, with Qui-Gon following him down, still supporting the boy.

Yoda continued to regard the child, with a mixture of pity and pain, and Qui-Gon realized suddenly that his old Master had no enmity in his heart for this boy; had, instead, a profound sympathy for innocence so manipulated, and betrayed.

"Padawan," said Mace Windu, gesturing for Garen to step into the circle. As the youth did so, another figure raced into the chamber and assumed her place at Garen's side. His smile, as he looked into the lovely face of his Iegan Master, was brilliant, if somewhat tremulous.

"Speak, Padawan," said Master Brea-Lei. "Tell us what happened."

Garen squared his shoulders and managed to stand alone, for a moment. "When I spoke to Master Qui-Gon, in the salle, I was . . . rude. For that, I apologize to the Council, though I can't, in good conscience, offer an apology to Master Qui-Gon. I believed what I said to him, and I still do."

Qui-Gon was silent, seething slightly over the boy's continued recalcitrance, but otherwise, remarkably calm.

"When I started my routine, after our confrontation, I felt something reach into my consciousness and sever my connection to the Force."

He paused, then took a deep breath. "No. That's wrong. Not some _thing_. Some _one_." 

He raised his head and stared at Xani. "Him. His Force signature was very clear and easily read."

"You're lying," said Xani, smirking slightly. "And you can't prove it anyway. You just hate me because I'm not him, because I took his place."

Garen smiled. "I don't hate you, Kid. And you will never take his place."

"Enough," said Qui-Gon abruptly. "I won't have him harassed like this."

But Yoda was moving again, now looking up to his former padawan.

"Understood nothing of this, have you?" he asked finally. "See no patterns, do you? Nothing in the disruption of the Force in young Garen, to compare to the disruption of the Force links between Masters and padawans?"

"Surely you can't . . ."

Abruptly, Yoda raised his hand, demanding - and getting - silence. His ears were drooping significantly when he looked over at the little girl standing quietly, awaiting his signal.

"Hoped to avoid this, I did," he said softly, as he returned his attention to the towering Master now kneeling before him.

"What do you mean?" asked Qui-Gon, quite certain now that there was something in this room, something in his former Master's eyes, that would forever change the person he was, the person he had always believed himself to be. "What . . ."

"One who will not see what is so obvious to everyone else," said the tiny Master, with a deep sigh, "must be shown."

At a gesture from the tiny green Master, the circle of Masters took another step forward, tightening the circle around the kneeling Jedi, the boy before him, and the tiny child who now turned to face them both.

Qui-Gon looked into the eyes of this tiny girl, a girl as fragile as a newborn, as vulnerable as a blossom in a thunderstorm, and felt real fear stir within him.

"No," he murmured as she walked toward him, hands outstretched.

The girl, it was immediately obvious, felt no fear at all. Her gray eyes were filled with serenity and certainty.

"I will open your memory," she said softly, gently, "and mine. You will not be able to unsee what is meant to be seen."

"No," he repeated. "Please, no."

For the space of a heartbeat, she actually paused and allowed a trace of sympathy to touch her eyes. But in the end, she could not step back, could not allow him to step back.

When Xani reached out and would have thrust her aside, she simply moved her hand, and the boy was pushed away and forgotten.

"Now," she said, as she extended one hand and laid it against his chest, "you will see."

 

******************** ***************************

_The images were confusing, as if he were being twisted and spun like a dry leaf on the wind, watching faces and figures sweep in and out of focus._

_It took a while before he figured it out. He was seeing things from two different minds, one which seemed to propel the actions around him, and the other which, somehow, was helpless to direct the course of events, but was struggling nevertheless to hold on to some semblance of control._

_And he saw a terrible, dark power, a presence that lingered and swirled and compelled obedience, compelled a lust for blood that sickened him and left him weak and trembling._

_The darkness stalked and found its first victim. A victim of convenience. Yani, who would die because - because . . . Oh, no, please. No. Because her death would open the door for the betrayal to begin._

_A victim who might have been saved, when he tried to step in. But the raging darkness was waxing now, flexing its strength and daring anyone to interfere. Daring him. And the interloper had tried. By the gods, he had tried so hard to defy the odds, to defend against the mighty power rising against him. How dare he? How dare he try to interfere? How dare he laugh and make fun and defy those he should bow down before? The rage, an adolescent's rage now, slammed into him and tried to send him plunging over that railing. And, oh, gods, it was so sweet, so sweet to let the fury go, to challenge his defiance._

_But now he had . . . Nooooo - he couldn't have. How did he manage to . . .?_

_And the adolescent gaze had turned, ever so briefly, to the child writhing now on the floor, almost comatose, almost beyond comprehension - almost. But not quite. Not quite so beyond reach that she would allow the destruction of the one to whom she would give her life, if he would have it._

A moment of disorientation swelled, then faded. And he seemed to be himself again. 

Qui-Gon Jinn, Jedi Master. But maybe not quite, for he could not remember ever having been so filled with rage.

And, abruptly, he knew where he was and when he was.

And what he would now be forced to see - to live - to know.

Very gently, Qui-Gon drew back from Oomy's grasping fingers.

"Will you see it?" she asked, willing to grant him the freedom to choose. Willing to grant him the dignity that he had not been willing to grant to another.

He simply nodded and looked down at his former Master.

Without a word, Yoda, Master Mace Windu, and Master Adi Gallia settled on their knees at his side, reached forward and clasped hands.

The padawan was on his knees, bruised, bewildered, bloodied - lost. And the betrayal in his eyes was a living thing, a thing that might very well prove to be eternal.

Qui-Gon saw himself, felt himself, reach into that tender consciousness and grip the nexus of the bond. It was at that very point, just before the severance of the link, that he forced himself to stop and experience the mind in which he was encased, experience what the boy was, and what he had done - and not done.

They all shared that moment of epiphany, and some of them would later wonder how they had survived it.

He saw the innocence and purity of a heart that had wished only to love and serve him, and then he saw himself rip that heart from the chest that cradled it. He saw the compassion of a tender soul that had sheltered him and nurtured him and healed him, and he saw himself plunder that soul and discard it - like yesterday's garbage. He saw the loyalty and devotion he had accepted from a child, a child whose goodness and naivete he had cast aside in a search for some personal fantasy. a dream that had never been real. 

And most of all, he saw the thought that assaulted that young spirit, that trusting heart. 

_How could you believe I would do this? How could you?_

The young one's agony of learning that he had been deemed capable of such barbarism seemed to crush and compress his belief in himself - and in the Jedi - into a hard, tangled knot of bitterness, one that might remain forever snarled and hopeless.

_How could you?_

That had been the cry in the padawan's soul, as his Master, the Master to whom he had pledged his life and his honor, a pledge on which he had never defaulted, had ripped away the anchor that bound him to the only life he had ever known.

A great bellowing shriek rose within the Jedi as he saw what he had done, what he had taken, what he had destroyed.

When it was over, Qui-Gon was lying on the floor of the great chamber, curled up in a fetal position, rocking himself, and repeating the same phrase over and over. "How could I? How could I?"

The Masters maintained their circle around him, and sought to regain their own equilibrium, as the storm that had risen in the Force continued to swirl around them, demanding action, demanding resolution, demanding justice.

The Force was a great believer in justice.

Xani sat huddled, forgotten outside the circle, his eyes hollow and haunted. He had lost. _They_ had lost. It was over.

Strangely, yet somehow, fittingly, it was Oomy that finally managed to soothe the great Jedi Master. Oomy who seemed to understand, who knew what lay within him, buried beneath the destruction of what he had always believed about himself.

He sat up and took the little girl in his lap, and allowed her to settle there. He was amazed that she would even approach him, given her prior feelings for him.

She looked up into midnight blue eyes and smiled. "No more hurting my Obi," she cautioned softly.

A tear spilled from the corner of his eye. "I swear it," he answered. "Though I doubt he'll ever let me get close enough to risk it."

She tilted her chin up. "I don't know why," she admitted, "but my Obi loves you, Master. Still."

Qui-Gon drew a deep shaky breath, and struggled to his feet, the child still cradled in his arms.

When he turned to face the Council, there was a new resolve in his eyes. "Do you know where he is?" he asked firmly.

Master Yoda nodded. "Know, we do."

"Then I'll go . . ."

"No." Master Mace Windu's tone brooked no argument. "You have other obligations, Qui-Gon."

"What do you mean? He's my . . ."

"No," interrupted Yoda. "He's not. You sent him away, and he has built a new life for himself. You will not interfere."

"But he'll want . . ."

"The truth is," said Master Windu, "that you have no idea what he might want. For these past five years, Qui-Gon, you've hardly been listening. And this - this outrage - was just the frosting on the cake."

"But I must go after him. He belongs here."

"Yes," agreed Yoda. "He does. But it must be his choice. You will not interfere. And you must be prepared for the fact that, even if he returns, he may not choose to renew his bond with you."

"But he must become a Jedi, Masters," said Qui-Gon firmly. "You saw what was in his mind, his heart. As surely as I did. Has there ever been anyone more deserving of becoming a Jedi knight?"

Yoda regarded the Master sternly. "Too late, it is, for you to make this decision for him. Or even, with him. Actions are under way, to bring him home, if possible. You must deal with other responsibilities."

"What 'other responsibilities'?"

Yoda gestured, and Qui-Gon turned to confront the child who crouched in a shadow against the wall, the child he had totally forgotten.

"What would you have me do?" he asked, touched in spite of his determination to remain aloof from the boy's obvious distress.

"A child, he is," replied Yoda. "Dangerous and misguided, but still a child. A special enclosure we have prepared, to prevent the re-occurrence of the bond disruptions. But a temporary solution, it is. Imprison these children forever, we cannot."

"And you expect me to find you a permanent solution," said Qui-Gon. It wasn't really a question, and he didn't really expect an answer. Which was good, because he didn't get one.

He started to walk away, to gather up the broken child who was still, technically, his ward, and walk away, when he turned back and allowed his gaze to sweep the circle of Masters.

"May I at least know where he is, and if he's safe?"

Yoda moved forward and looked up, with a smile. "Say his name."

Qui-Gon went to his knees before the tiny Master. "Please, my Master. Where is my Obi-Wan?"

Yoda laid a gentle hand on his padawan's shoulder. "Best, it is that you do not know, Qui-Gon. Safe? Who can say? A safe place, the galaxy is not. But among friends, he is, or so I'm told. Friends who seem to care for him very much. And under the eyes of Jedi, as well."

"Master, I can't lose him, not like this. Please let me . . ."

"No, Qui-Gon," said the tiny green Master. "For the best, this is. Has it not occurred to you that Obi-Wan may refuse to see you?"

Qui-Gon nodded. "I know. And, if that's what he wants, I'll accept it. If he chooses never to look at me again, I'll understand. But I need to know he's safe. I need to know . . ."

"You have a duty to the Order now, Master Qui-Gon," said Mace Windu suddenly, sternly. "And the Order has a duty to Obi-Wan Kenobi, in which we have failed abominably. It is time to allow him to make his choices. Should this be about your needs, or his?"

Qui-Gon nodded, and Mace Windu felt bitter remorse rise within him as he saw his old friend seem to slump in on himself. Abruptly, the brilliance of the Master's midnight blue eyes seemed to dim and fade.

Qui-Gon made his departure, Xani walking listlessly at his side, and Masters Yoda and Windu exchanged grim glances.

The man who left the Jedi chamber was barely a shell of the one who had entered it earlier. 

Now, it seemed, the knighthood had not only lost one irreplaceable Jedi; it might very well have lost two.

******************* ******************* *************** 

tbc


	21. A Gift of Tears

Chapter 21: A Gift of Tears

_Before the beginning of years_  
 _There came to the making of man_ ,  
 _Time with a gift of tears,_  
 _Grief with a glass that ran,_  
 _Pleasure with pain for leaven_ ,  
 _Summer with flowers that fell,_  
 _Remembrance fallen from heaven,_  
 _And Madness risen from hell_ ,  
 _Strength without hands to smite,_  
 _Love that endures for a breath;_  
 _Night, the shadow of light,_  
 _And Life, the shadow of death._

_Atalanta in Claydon, Chorus_ \---- Algernon Charles Swinburne

 

At the very least, he thought, it should be twilight. There should be shadows and gloom and impending darkness. Or rain, perhaps; a lowering storm. That's what one should expect, when a world had shifted beneath one's feet and then just fallen away into nothingness.

Desolation should not be framed with brilliant oblongs of sunlight, like the ones he was walking through now. He raised his head and stopped so abruptly that the boy who was struggling to keep pace with him was hard put not to crash against him.

Beyond the paristeel of the row of windows that lined the eastern corridor of the great Jedi Temple, the full flush of morning was spilling over Coruscant, dispersing the lingering remnants of night with the casual gesture of a finger of radiance. The light was almost liquid - and warm, he thought. Warm like honey. Warm like sand beneath a tropical sun. Warm like laughter rising in blue-green eyes.

Without conscious thought or word, he moved forward into a sun-sparked alcove, a tiny meditation station, and, in a concentration of brightness like molten gold, Master Qui-Gon Jinn, once more, went to his knees and simply lost himself, staring out into the brilliant clarity of the new day. How could there be such perfection - such renewal - in a world that should have been dark and raw with the loss of innocence?

The Master briefly remembered an occasion from his youth, an occasion of grief that occurred on a day such as this. He remembered the leap and crackle of flames, their brilliance almost lost in the glittering spectacle of sunrise.

Funerals, he thought - then and now - should only happen in the rain.

A soul should never be forced to desert its body while in the tender grasp of morning sunlight. 

Behind him, the boy fidgeted, not wanting to call attention to himself, but feeling far too vulnerable without the focused protection of the towering Jedi.

"Xani," said the Master, very softly.

The child took a deep breath, and managed to steady himself, barely. "Yes."

"Are you ready to talk to me, about all of this?"

"Here?" The boy almost choked on the syllable.

"Wherever you prefer," replied Qui-Gon, his voice barely audible. "I doubt we'll be allowed much time."

"They're going to take me away," said the boy, not really asking.

"Yes, they are," answered the Master. "After a fashion, anyway. You won't be allowed to remain in our quarters, but you'll still be nearby. I'll still be allowed to see you, and see to your needs."

Xani cocked his head at an angle and stared at the Master. "Why would you do that?"

"You are still my responsibility, Xani. Regardless of what has happened. I will . . ."

"Hate me for the rest of your life," the boy interrupted harshly. "That's what you'll do, once you have time to think about it. Once you realize what I cost you." Unexpectedly, he laughed, but there was no joy in the sound. Rather it was endlessly bitter. "Not to mention what I cost myself."

"What do you mean?" asked Qui-Gon.

Xani moved around the Master to lean against the thick paristeel that separated them from the incredibly thin, cold atmosphere beyond the transparency. For a moment, it seemed the boy would refuse to answer, and when he did, finally, Qui-Gon had to strain to hear him.

"I was created for a specific purpose, you know. I was made to destroy the Jedi. And you, of course. But mostly the Jedi. I don't know when I learned that. I don't ever remember _not_ knowing it, so I guess I was very young. But I always believed that, someday, I'd find the thing, or the person, or the . . .something that would fill up the emptiness I always carried inside me."

He turned to stare at the Jedi Master, and Qui-Gon fought down an incredible urge to offer what little comfort he had to give. Somehow, though, he knew that wasn't the proper thing to do.

"I always thought it would be you," said the boy, eyes downcast to conceal the brilliance within them. "Nobody ever told me that. It was just something inside me that said there had to be somebody that would be . . . ."

He paused and turned back to the window. "You want to hear the punchline?" he said wryly. "I was right, and I was wrong. There was someone, but it wasn't you. Isn't that rich? The person who could give me what I always wanted, what I needed to make me whole, was the first person I had to destroy in order to fulfill my purpose in life."

"Obi-Wan," said Qui-Gon, his voice caressing the name with gentleness.

"Obi-Wan," echoed the boy, shaking his head. His eyes narrowed as he watched the Master's reaction to the sound of the name. "They haven't told you everything, you know," he said suddenly.

Qui-Gon nodded. "I know. I haven't the right to demand . . . ."

"He's not safe," Xani interrupted. "He doesn't know . . ."

Qui-Gon stared into the depths of the boy's sapphire eyes, and felt a surge of darkness spear through him. "What are you saying, Xani? What doesn't he know?"

The boy's face became a mask of non-emotion. "Why should I tell you? You're abandoning me, just like you abandoned him. Maybe we're both better off without you."

"Xani," said the Master firmly, "if you know something that threatens Obi-Wan, you must tell me."

"Must I?" His smile now was petty, arrogant, callous. "Why must I? So you can go rushing in and rescue him? So you can bring him back and become the great Master again, the perfect Master of the perfect padawan?"

"Xani, please . . .."

"No, _Master_." The title was brittle with derision. "As you and yours are so quick to point out, I am not a Jedi. I care nothing for your noble causes and your honor." He paused to look out into the morning, and seemed to focus on something far beyond the range of his vision. "No matter how much I needed him or wanted him, no matter that he could have completed me, I can never have him. I know that. And if I can't have him . . ." He turned back to face Qui-Gon, and allowed the depth of his hatred to show in his eyes, "no one will."

Qui-Gon, much to the boy's surprise, did not react with rage or resentment. Rather, he simply studied the haughty young face that glared at him. "For one not meant to love," he said slowly, "it must be a terrible burden."

Xani almost gasped. "I don't . . . I don't love him, and I don't want to love him. Don't you think I can see what 'love' does to people?"

"What . . ."

"Your 'love' is what made you vulnerable, Qui-Gon." The boy's voice was heavy with bitter irony. "Even now, it's still working on you."

"Why do you say that?"

Xani's laugh was acrid, caustic. "Think about it. You had nothing but a suspicion, an assumption that Obi-Wan tried to harm me and Yani. You never even bothered to explore the possibility that you were wrong. But you turned on him, like a mother catling fighting for her cub. You turned on him and threw him away. Why do you think you did that?"

"Because I . . . I believed . . . "

"Yes, but why would you believe that? Did he ever give you reason to believe something like that? Did he ever do anything to justify your suspicions?"

Qui-Gon stared blindly into the liquid sunlight. "No." Very soft, very lost.

Xani smiled. "No. Of course, he didn't. And do you know why?"

The Master simply shook his head, as the boy leaned forward, his eyes as hard as carved crystal. "Because he really doesn't have it in him. I knew him for just a few days, and I knew that. You knew him all his life - and didn't. And the reason? The very same 'love' you're so enthralled with. You 'loved' me, Master." Again, the acid tone transformed the title into an epithet. "Because you had no choice. My father programmed it into you. And look at you now. Here you stand, knowing that I tried to kill him, knowing that I was the instrument used to destroy your bond with him, knowing that I would, if I could, destroy the Jedi, and still," - he seemed vaguely incredulous - "you avoid raising a hand to me, or doing anything that might cause me harm or pain. Why is that, Master Jinn? How could you do what you did to him, with so little provocation, but you still can't push me away?"

"I don't know," admitted the Master, now exploring a thick, silent darkness within himself. "I don't know."

Xani's smile broadened. "Because he dared to push his way in, when you wanted to remain alone. That's it, isn't it?"

"Maybe," admitted the Master. "When your father turned . . ."

Abruptly the boy reeled away. "No. I won't discuss that with you."

"Xani, please," said Qui-Gon, still very softly, "if you know something that might threaten Obi-Wan . . . "

"No," retorted the child, voice hoarse now with unshed tears, "I won't help you save him. I've won, you know. In my own way, I've won. You know it, and he knows it. For he'll always know that you gave him up for me; he'll always know that he was just second-best." Dark sapphire eyes gleamed with pure malevolence. "And he'll always know, even if he comes back to you, that you'll do it again. Someday. He'll always know. So congratulations, Master Jinn. That's the legacy you've created for your perfect padawan."

Qui-Gon suppressed a sigh, and simply stared at that much-beloved face, a face so extraordinarily beautiful that it was almost painful; a face . . . the realization was almost more than he could bear . . . that he would still kill to protect, to preserve.

Xani smiled again. "You see? With all you know, with all the dark power that you sense within me, the love still holds you. You would still sacrifice him, for me."

"No." The Master knew that the word was weak, more of a prayer than an assertion.

"Yes," the boy insisted. "I know it; you know it; and, most important of all for me, _he_ knows it. The damage you've done to him, in the name of 'love'" - the word was a dreadful perversion as he spoke it - "can't ever be undone."

Qui-Gon was suddenly overwhelmed with the sense of a great presence behind them, and a great weariness within the presence.

Master Yoda was leaning heavily on his gimmer stick, as he stared up in to the shadowed eyes of his former student.

Xani was almost grinning now, and he offered a mock salute to the new arrival. "Ask him," he almost crowed, his certainty growing ever stronger. "He knows. The all-powerful little troll has seen through you all along. You even admitted it to him. Didn't you?"

The boy was now almost bouncing on his heels, as his voice dropped to a near whisper. _"You can't love someone, just because you should."_

Qui-Gon looked down into the scrunched features of his old Master, and read the truth of the boy's bitter words in huge citrus eyes.

But Xani was not quite done. He still had one last dart left with which to impale the Master's heart.

"You want to hear the rest?" he crooned. "The frosting on the cake? He still loves you. In spite of everything you did to him. He'll still come crawling back, and sit up so prettily, and beg to be allowed to be abused again. That's what love does to you, Master. And, from my perspective, I'm better off without it."

Yoda extended a hand, gesturing to two knights waiting in an alcove. They stepped forward as the tiny Master turned to address the Telosian boy. "Go with them, you will," he said firmly. "Harmed, you will not be, if you co-operate."

Xani laughed. "You know," he said broadly, "I can't imagine how my father survived here for all those years. You're all so miserably . . . civilized."

Master Qui-Gon stood and watched the boy walk away, and his anguish was engraved in every line of his body.

"Correct, he is," observed Master Yoda, with a deep sigh. "Love him, you still do."

Qui-Gon settled to his knees slowly, and was faintly surprised to register the warmth of the pool of sunlight that caressed him. "I need to find Obi-Wan, Master," he said softly. "I need . . ."

"That," said the tiny Master, "is the problem. _You_ need. Must it always be what you need, Qui-Gon? Where is the devotion you owed to your Padawan? Where is the compulsion to protect him?"

"It's just that. . ."

But Yoda was not going to allow any equivocation; sidestepping and avoiding the issue had gone on for much too long already.

"Just that you forgot him," he said sternly. "Didn't you? In your list of priorities, he ceased to exist. Didn't he?"

Qui-Gon's eyes were huge and brimming with shadow. "Did he? Is that what I did?"

Yoda sighed. "That's exactly what you did, Master Qui-Gon. And even now, you remain torn. Bode well for the future, this does not."

"What do you mean?" asked the younger Jedi.

The ancient Master began to turn away, looking, suddenly, like he might actually be over eight hundred years old. "A dangerous path, he walks now. Survive it, he may not. But, even if he does, even if we manage to coax him back to us, changes there must be."

Qui-Gon felt a ripple of sheer terror rip through him. "You're going to take him away from me."

Yoda paused, and stared out into the megalopolis that was Coruscant. "Look at them out there," he said softly. "Believe us to be cold and heartless, most do. Rigid, and concerned with nothing but the Code. Only we know the truth; that there is love and peace and harmony within the Order, all flowing from the energy of the Force." Huge eyes turned up to gaze at the towering Jedi. "Entrusted to us are the young ones who are our future. Not enough is it that we feed them and clothe them and house them and teach them how to be Jedi. Not enough, if we do not also teach them that they are loved and treasured, that they are beloved, both of the Force and of those of us charged with their care and nurturing."

Qui-Gon felt his heart shift within him. He knew what was coming.

The tiny Master leaned forward and waited until Qui-Gon met his gaze. "What did you teach your padawan, Master Qui-Gon? What was the last lesson you prepared for him?"

 

******************* ************** *******************

As Hutts went, thought Obi-Wan with a slight smirk, Nanza was not - quite - as repulsive as most. It was still relatively young, for one thing, meaning that its obesity was only just beginning to compromise its mobility. Though it reclined on a repulsor sled, it maneuvered easily enough across the surface to allow him to assume that it rode rather than slithered out of preference rather than necessity.

It was also decidedly greener than most Hutts he had seen, but a certain garishness in the hue, added to the fact that it seemed to be somewhat streaky in appearance, convinced the Jedi that the color was due to a cosmetic enhancement, rather than a natural physical trait.

The eyes in the great bulbous head were large, and very sharp, and the voice was deep and resonant, as the creature chuckled its approval.

"Very nice, young one. Very nice indeed."

Obi-Wan stood very tall, feet planted, hands on hips, eyes wide and just slightly defiant. 

Several members of Nanza's household retinue smiled broadly, while others tried to conceal the gleam of desire rising in their eyes. By the gods, this little strumpet, this performer introduced simply as Ben Kenobi, this manchild of the chameleon eyes and the supple, exquisite body, was going to make life incredibly interesting, for a while.

"So tell me," said the Hutt, having completed a leisurely visual examination of the 'merchandise' displayed so fetchingly before it, "what can you do for me, Little One? The 'fee' for your services is quite exorbitant, for 'business as usual'. What do you have to offer that merits such generosity from me?"

Obi-Wan's smile slid from wry to seductive without missing a beat. "Why don't you tell me what you want?" he replied softly.

Nanza chuckled again. "Spirit and brains, all wrapped up in an extremely nice package. Excellent. But Zotrulle tells me you have a talent for distraction, under certain circumstances."

The youth shrugged, allowing the silken drift of his shirt to slide provocatively down one shoulder. A muffled choking sound behind him told him that one of his escorts - he couldn't be sure which - was having a hard time controlling a response to his action. Nor could he tell if the response itself was one of mirth, or something else.

"Very well," said the Hutt. "Let's just see how good you are, Sweet Ben."

Now Obi-Wan allowed himself a grin, until Nanza, with incredible speed considering his bulk, extended his tail and curved it around the Jedi's body, drawing him in close; too close - closer than he had ever been, or ever wanted to be - to a Hutt. It took every ounce of Jedi control he had to keep from recoiling from the stench.

"Please me," said Nanza, a splay-fingered hand stroking the boy's throat, "and you will be well rewarded." Then the fingers tightened abruptly, surprisingly strong. "Fail me, and you will pay - and pay - and pay. Understood?"

"Perfectly," replied Obi-Wan.

The Hutt released him as abruptly as it had captured him, and pushed him away.

"In twenty minutes," said Zotrulle, as his master turned his attention elsewhere, "I have a meeting with Madam Zoreina Mal Marisch of the Corporate Sector Board of Supervisors. She will be accompanied by her research assistant, Carell Bistre. This meeting," he paused and gazed directly into Obi-Wan's eyes, "could be very important, and very delicate. There are certain contracts that are up for renewal with clauses which we have tweaked to our advantage. The adjustments are very minor, but will prove hugely profitable over the long run."

He paused and once more allowed his eyes to slide over Obi-Wan's body, and the young Jedi had to stifle an urge to slam the loathsome creature through the nearest wall.

"Do you understand what we want from you, Ben?" The Bith seemed to linger over the name.

Obi-Wan smiled. "You want me to help you assure that they don't look too closely at the contracts before they sign them?"

But Zotrulle surprised him. "Oh, they've already seen the contracts. No, no, no, Young Ben. That would be entirely too easy, wouldn't it? I mean, any competent little whore with a shapely ass could manage that."

When the bright, hard glint of anger flared in sea-change eyes, Nanza's laughter rumbled again, surprising the assembled company. "Careful, Zotrulle," cautioned the Hutt. "This pretty baby has teeth, and doesn't like to be called a whore. You might want to keep that in mind."

"So what _do_ you want?" snapped Obi-Wan, now just generally annoyed with everybody, including himself. Fortunately, his annoyance translated, biologically, into a faint flush, which only served to enhance his physical charms.

"I want you to enchant them so completely that they forget all about the changes," said the Bith, now sounding smug. 

It was an impossible task, and everyone in the room knew it. These women, after all, were corporate executives, not village idiots.

Obi-Wan pursed his lips as he appeared to be deep in thought. In actuality, of course, he was nothing of the kind. It _was_ an impossibility, unless one were Jedi and could apply the Force with such precision and strength that the manipulation would go unnoticed.

He smiled, and winked at the Hutt. "Get your checkbook ready," he said smugly, and was gratified when Nanza laughed again. Now all he had to do, he thought, was manipulate the Force sufficiently to accomplish his ends with the two women, while simultaneously managing to somehow short-circuit the contracts themselves so that the signing would be ultimately meaningless, and keep Nanza and his entourage from becoming so enamored of his person - and his performance - that they simply whisked him off to some stronghold where all his Jedi abilities would be completely useless. "Assuming, of course, that you find my terms . . . acceptable."

Nanza paused for a moment - just long enough to let the young courtesan understand that the Hutt did not enjoy having terms dictated by a prostitute, no matter how skilled or exquisite; agreement was finally indicated, however, with a single nod. Which, of course, meant absolutely nothing, in the grand scheme of things, so that Obi-Wan and his handlers were all fully aware that the provision included in his verbal contract - the one that stipulated that he alone would make the final determination concerning whose bed he ultimately adorned - was as meaningless as the concept of Hutt honor.

"May I see the meeting room, please," he said softly. "I'll need a few moments, to prepare."

Behind him, Madam Gratta and Solitaire started to step forward, but Nanza's minions moved in quickly. They were mercenaries; of that there was no doubt. But they were very well trained mercenaries.

"But I haven't been paid," protested the Madam, as 'Ben' was hustled toward a doorway across the room.

Zotrulle dismissed her and her companions with a languid flutter of his hand. "You will be compensated, at the specified rate, if - _if_ he performs as advertised."

"It is customary . . ." she began.

"As you astutely pointed out earlier," interrupted the Bith, "there is nothing customary about this." He gestured toward Obi-Wan just as the young Jedi was thrust through an open door.

"And if he can't . . . deliver what you want?" Her tone was meant to suggest a professional interest in a valuable asset, but it was just a hair too shrill to carry it off.

The Bith's smile was cold. "Then you will get him back, slightly the worse for wear and tear."

In a move worthy of a trained Jedi, Solitaire twisted and vaulted across the space that separated him from the Bith, landing in a classic battle stance, arms extended. One of them held that glittering blade that had so easily affected the over-amorous Gamorrhean earlier, but now it's lethal point lay touching the throat of Zotrulle, whose gray skin was suddenly several shades grayer.

"Hold on here," rasped the Bith, gasping for breath against the stinging sharpness.

Solitaire leaned forward, increasing the pressure on the swordpoint until a swelling drop of purplish fluid appeared at the tip. "No. _You_ hold on, flunky. Your master's money buys the boy's services, but not for your pleasure. Do you understand me?"

"Master?" squawked the Bith.

"Oh, he's quite right, of course," replied Nanza, completely uninterested in the plight of his assistant. "The boy is hardly for the likes of you, Zotrulle."

Solitaire regarded the Hutt solemnly, the blade in his hand never wavering. "The boy will not be harmed? We have your word?"

The Hugg sighed noisily. "Such an uproar over one pretty little toy! But very well. You have my word; he won't be harmed. And if, by some miracle, he is as good as he thinks he is, well, let's just say it's going to be a very lucrative arrangement for all concerned."

 

**************** ******************** *************

The conference room was elegantly appointed, of course. It could hardly have been otherwise, considering the caliber of the clientele that made use of the facility.

Paneled in hand-hewn plierra wood, rich and dark and veined in the velvety residue of burgundy sap that gave it its deep patina, fitted with floor to ceiling faceted glass on the wall that overlooked the grand casino, carpeted with a silken plush that absorbed sound and invited touch. At one end, a full service bar, free-form and veneered with a nacre-like mineral, stood ready to provide libations for a wide variety of tastes, and, nearby, a lavish buffet had been spread. Food enough, thought Obi-Wan, as his eyes swept over the tempting display, to feed all the hungry tribes of Cahlminat, where famine had ravaged the planet for the past two years.

He took a moment to enjoy the fact that, for the first time in what seemed to be a very long time, he was totally alone. No one was talking to him, or questioning him, or looking at him. Except, of course, for the avid eyes glued to the security cameras that covered him from five different angles. Still, it was a minor respite, and he savored the unexpected moment, knowing it wouldn't last.

He explored further and found inspiration.

No expense had been spared in stocking this particular suite to meet the needs - any needs - of the business people who came here to combine work and pleasure. And some of those people, apparently, were devotees of physical fitness. For at the far end of the conference room, opposite the huge oval table that dominated the suite, was a shallow alcove, separated from the main area of the suite by a cut-work partition and silk hangings.

Within the alcove was a bewildering assortment of gym equipment. Weight benches, treadmills, stationary bikes, balance beams and vaults, parallel bars, and - at the extreme edge of the alcove - a set of rings.

Obi-Wan's grin, had anyone been around to see it, might have been described as a smirk.

He had realized many years before that he was never going to reach the physical size of some of the more intimidating Jedi, like his towering Master, and that, as a result, he would never achieve the level of brute strength that they possessed. This, of course, had absolutely nothing to do with his strength in the Force, which, he believed, was equal to almost anyone's. But in close physical combat, he had learned - and been taught - that there were always alternatives. What he could never develop in sheer physical strength, he compensated for with athletic and gymnastic skills, skills he had honed over the past six years, to a point at which few in the Temple were his equal.

Not to put too fine a point on it, Obi-Wan owned the rings.

He set to work quickly, to set the stage, and then set himself to meditate for a moment. He was confident that he was capable of doing what he must do; maybe too confident.

As he closed his eyes, to seek his center, to call upon the Force to help him achieve the cool resolve he needed in order to accomplish his goals, he felt, very briefly, a flicker of icy dread, as if something dark and foul had stepped between him and the Force, and blocked him away from its warmth.

But, whatever it was, it was gone almost before he registered its presence, and he shrugged, reaching once again for the familiar comfort and feeling it reach back, flowing into him, caressing him, holding him.

Jedi did not glow, not really. Not exactly - except that, sometimes they did. Sometimes he did. Only generally, no one noticed it.

This time, someone did.

 

***************** *************** ********************

 

"Just look at the little bastard," she breathed, her breath catching in her throat.

Maleonaka Sirvik obliged and froze. "N'Vell, he's glowing."

"Ummmm," she agreed, resisting an incredible urge to order up a squadron of guards to have the object of her interest brought directly to her.

"And exactly _why_ would he be glowing?" insisted Sirvik. "I've never seen anyone - even one of them - glow."

"Xanatos told me about it," she answered softly. "It doesn't happen often, and not to very many. Just once in a while, when they achieve a perfect connection to the Force."

But Sirvik was not comforted. "I thought he was just an apprentice. How can he be that good?"

She shrugged. "He's Obi-Wan Kenobi, Mali. You've known about him for years. Why should you be surprised? Even among the Jedi, he's very rare."

"Yes, but . . ."

"Oh, do shut up," she snapped. Her voice softened when she continued, "And let me just look at him. This little performance alone ought to be worth the price of admission."

Heavy breathing behind them signaled the approach of their host.

"I do hope you're right," said Nanza. "It is, after all, your ten thousand credits at risk. I mean, he's definitely a completely adorable piece of ass, but ten thousand credits? Per performance?"

N'Vell chuckled, suppressing a sigh as she watched the interaction of skin and muscle under clinging midnight silk. "Trust me, my greedy friend, there are places in the outer rim where selling one like this could set you up for life, in style."

"Indeed?" said the Hutt. "Perhaps I've been in the wrong business. Perhaps . . "

She smiled. "Not with this one. This one is mine."

"Oh, very well," agreed the Hutt, "although I do think I should be allowed to sample . . ."

"Absolutely not," she interrupted, her eyes as sharp as lasers. "No one touches him, unless and until I say so. Is that clear?"

"You know, my dear," said Nanza coolly, "we Hutts don't react very well to coercion. Especially since there are very few people with enough power to oppose us effectively."

N'Vell smiled. "Is that a challenge, my friend?"

Nanza was unperturbed. "Just a reminder."

The Telosian princess turned to stare into huge, jaundiced eyes. "Then let me remind you of something," she said softly. "Ours is a strictly business arrangement, mutually profitable to both of us. But you do not have a monopoly on the products we purchase from you. We could, if necessary, find a new supplier. Can you as easily find a new buyer?"

Nanza remained calm, despite the flutter of unease in the pit of his gargantuan stomach. He discovered, quite suddenly, that he really didn't like this woman, no matter how beautiful or powerful or rich she might be. And he spared a fleeting moment of something that might have been pity - something completely unprecedented in all Hutt history - for the lovely young creature now glowing on the security monitors.

Jaundiced eyes widened. _Glowing?_

A second glance at the screens revealed only the graceful movements of the youth - minus glow. An optical illusion then. But very disturbing, nonetheless.

"He is yours," agreed the Hutt, not bothering to pretend politeness.

N'Vell, however, had what she wanted, and ignored the rest, as she turned back to watch the scene play out before her.

"When do you want him taken?" asked the Hutt.

She grinned and shook her head. "You've got it all wrong, Nanza. I don't want him taken, at all. In fact, I want him to get exactly what he came for. He and I will meet when the time is right. But that time is . . . not yet."

Mali Sirvik glanced over at his companion's face and suppressed a shudder as he returned his gaze to the viewscreen. The young man displayed there, radiant in the flush of youth and beauty, would appear to have been blessed, by the gods or the Force or whatever divinity one happened to worship. 

Sirvik knew better. Knew himself to be a weak, pathetic, amoral whiner, with a moderately facile mind and an even more facile spine. Knew he had never been and would never be one tenth the man this strapping young Jedi had already become. And knew he would not trade his miserable life for a single moment of the boy's existence. For one look at N'Vell Aji's face told a story already written, a conclusion already reached. Kenobi would die at her hands; cruelly, painfully, excruciatingly, and knowing, all the while, that his death would signal the beginning of a slide into desolation for all Jedi, everywhere.

Yet, there was still that shadow in her eyes. She had tried several times today to reach the boy, or the child, Oomy. Without success. But this was not unusual; the connections were, sometimes, erratic, and they had never determined why this happened.

Tomorrow, she would try again. Or later tonight perhaps. The assault against the mighty Jedi had begun, and they could not afford to allow them time for recovery.

Sirvik felt that forbidden thought rise up within him, the one he never dared verbalize to her, the question he never dared ask.

He tried to suppress it, as always, but it would not be completely silenced. What if, it demanded, the ruse didn't work? What if the Jedi found a way to stop it?

He turned once more to look at N'Vell, and easily read the dreadful thirst for vengeance that drove her, not to mention the carnal lust that simmered always just below the surface of her mind. Her eyes were hot and avid, devouring the boy where he stood. If the Jedi could not be made to pay collectively, thought Sirvik, once more stifling an urge to shudder, then one particular Jedi would be forced to pay for them all.

No, he reminded himself once more, despite the abject failure of his own life, he would not be Obi-Wan Kenobi for all the credits in the entire galactic banking system. Better a living failure than a dead and defiled hero.

 

************** ******************** **********************

 

CEO Zoreina Mal Marisch wore armor. Well, not really. But it might as well have been armor, crafted from metal impervious to the slings and arrows of life and/or business, for everything - no matter how sharp or penetrating - just bounced off her façade. And she cared not at all where all those ricochet projectiles wound up, as long as they didn't impact her, her life, or, Force forbid, her career.

She wore black, almost obsessively, because it was practical, because it required no effort to co-ordinate with anything else, and, only incidentally, because it complimented her honey-blonde hair and ivory skin. She had maintained her youthful good looks, despite her advancing years, because she found that it gave her an advantage in corporate dealings. Sentient beings, she found, especially sentient male beings, did not expect an attractive young female to fight and infight with all the spirit and intensity that were required in the vicious circle of big business. Zoreina, unfailingly, surprised her opponents with the degree of her dedication and the intensity of her zeal.

She knew what they called her in the rank and file. In her youth, it had been the Ice Maiden, not totally flattering, of course, but bearable. Then she had matured, and her reputation had grown with her. And now she was the Braintrust Bitch. Which also suited her, better than any of them could have guessed.

She was a bitch, and she was endlessly proud of it, in the same way that she was proud that her father had been a "heartless old bastard". That was the way she always thought of him - in quotation marks.

Zoreina had only one goal in life, only one motivation. On the day she retired from her chairmanship of the Corp-Sec Board, she wanted to be acknowledged as being its most successful CEO - ever.

Her goal was well in sight, and she was only three years away from that supremely magical day.

She settled herself at the conference table, and looked over to her executive assistant for confirmation that all was in order.

On her right, an undersecretary of some sort - his name, she thought, was Armoll - stood ready to provide her with anything she might require from her cavernous briefcase.

Now, all she had to do was complete this onerous business with this dreadful Hutt and . . . 

"Can I offer you something, My Lady?"

Zoreina actually jumped as she felt herself stroked by that amazing voice.

"What?" she looked up and was immediately drowning in eyes the color of the sea at sunset.

The vision smiled. "Something to drink?" he explained, leaning forward, almost - but not quite - invading her space, offering her the opportunity to gaze, long and hard, at the expanse of creamy gold skin exposed beneath a drift of midnight blue silk.

The tray he extended held - something; she had no idea what. But it was cold, she thought, and probably wet and - all things considered - a very good idea.

"Yes, thank you." 

She reached for the tray, but his hand was there first, placing the frosted glass into her palm, just brushing her knuckles with gentle fingers.

Zoreina almost gasped, as she felt the tingle of an electric spark - Yes, insisted her incredulous mind, an actual electrical spark - fire her nerve endings.

He smiled again, just catching his lower lip with perfect white teeth, and Zoreina actually had to fight off an urge to pour the icy contents of her glass over her head. Suddenly, she was that overheated.

He turned to her assistant. "And you, Miss. What would you like?"

Zoreina looked over at her assistant, and knew immediately that what Carell wanted to say was better left unsaid in mixed company.

"Whatever you have," replied Carel Bistre, not even bothering to pretend that it was anything other than a double entendre.

The smile was blinding, and Carel, by the time he turned to move away, was almost hyper-ventilating.

Zoreina was aware, with one part of her mind, that her adversary had arrived and taken his place across the table, but the other part of her mind was occupied with watching the impertinent swing of one perfectly-shaped bottom as it moved away from her. Such a walk, she thought, vaguely, ought to be illegal, especially when encased in leather pants as tight as a second skin.

A sharply drawn breath from the individual on her right made her glance over, to find Armoll every bit as transfixed as she and her assistant, and a swift glance around the room revealed that they were not alone.

For someone doing nothing more than serving drinks, the vision had managed to rivet every eye in the room. 

Even the despised Bith flunky looked slightly wide-eyed.

_Ah, Geez, Kid_ , she thought abruptly, _if I could bottle whatever it is you're projecting, we could both retire rich._

When she heard the barely discernible echo of a chuckle in her mind, she almost jumped out of her chair and turned just in time to see him wink at her.

"Shall we begin?" said the Bith, his tone much more smug than his demeanor seemed to support.

Zoreina felt all her senses go to alert status; something was simply not right here.

"Contract B," she said softly to the clerk at her right.

His response was a sharp intake of breath, a response, no doubt, to the fact that Leather-Boy had just bent over to retrieve something from the floor, and . . . oh, my stars, what a view!

"Contract B," she repeated, slightly louder.

At which point, the clerk jerked open the briefcase and spilled most of the contents onto the table top.

With a hand that was almost steady, Zoreina reached out and retrieved Contract B from the stack. "I wish to discuss changes you've made in the quality control requirements," she said firmly - she hoped.

"Excuse me, Master," said Leather-Boy, very softly, addressing the Bith.

"What is it?" Zotrulle's tone and manner were sharp.

"If you have no further need of my services," (and why, Zoreina asked herself, would his use of that particular term bother her so much?) "I'll take this time to work on my exercises."

The Bith dismissed the boy with a wave of his hand. "Of course. Whatever you wish."

Zoreina looked over at her assistant, and realized that Carell was down for the count. The word 'exercises' apparently had been enough to push her over the top. She sat with her face propped in her hand, her eyes glued to the vision's lovely little swagger as he went to the end of the huge chamber and disappeared through a softly-draped curtain.

The CEO sighed and offered silent thanks to the gods of commerce. He was out of sight, and maybe now, she could concentrate on the business at hand; maybe, given sufficient time, her assistant would even return to the real world.

She looked down at the contract before her, trying to focus on the print that was so small and cramped, it gave the term 'fine print' a whole new meaning.

"You were talking about quality control, I believe," prompted the Bith, and now Zoreina knew that something was definitely up. The Hutt and his shady associates had tried to obscure the changes they'd made in the contract with misleading language and esoteric references; they would hardly remind her now of the point she had been trying to make.

"Yes," she agreed, "I was. We are not pleased with the arbitrary changes you have made in clauses 21-Alva:6 through 22-Deneb:11. They are entirely unacceptable."

"But we have made no changes," said the Bith calmly. "You are mistaken. Perhaps you should read it again."

"I most certainly will," she retorted, "but my rereading it will not change. . "

She had made the mistake of glancing to her left, expecting to find her assistant nodding her support. Instead, she found her completely wrapped up and lost in the event happening at the end of the room

Zoreina had been wrong. He was not out of sight. He was, instead, more of a sight now than anything she had ever seen.

The semi-sheer curtains that separated the conference room from the work-out area were billowing now in an unseen breeze - possibly from the air filtration system; thus the vision was only visible intermittently. But that was more than enough, Zoreina acknowledged. Anything more, she thought, and her heart might not have been up to the strain.

She had heard the phrase, 'poetry in motion' many times throughout her life. She had never really known what it meant, until this moment. 

Her first glimpse of him showed him in a completely vertical handstand, his back beautifully straight, arms knotted with muscle, hands grasping the rings firmly, throat arched. Then he let himself roll forward, extending his arms directly to either side, allowing his body to form a perfect cross.

He had not bothered to remove the silk shirt, and, as his maneuvers became ever more complex, perspiration darkened the silk, and the sensuous fabric clung to him lovingly, as if loathe to relinquish his touch.

"You were saying?" said the Bith, and his tone suggested maybe he had said it more than once.

"What?"

Zotrulle huffed a long-drawn breath of impatience. "Really, Madam, if you can't concentrate on the subject at hand, you should consider retiring. Perhaps it's getting to be too much for you. At your age, that is."

Zoreina Mal Marisch looked down at the contract before her, and felt something, a vague sense of disorientation, a dizziness that seemed to block the thought that was trying to surface in her mind.

"I believe we're ready to sign the contracts," said the Bith. "Don't you agree?"

The CEO paused and shook her head slowly. Then she looked up, and found those strange, compelling eyes gazing back at her, and felt a sudden warmth flare within her. Without another word, she picked up the electronic stylus, and affixed her cyber-signature to the appropriate documents.

In five minutes, it was done, and new contracts had been signed and sealed which - once validated - would change the lives of millions of beings on several outer rim worlds, and not for the better, either. Unfortunately, within the magnetic/electronic vault in which the contracts were sealed, an unforeseen problem arose, at almost the exact moment the seal was closed; a stray particle of Force energy was somehow sealed into the vault with the encoded documents - a very volatile particle. Within seconds, all electronic and cyber coding on the documents was destroyed, including cyber signatures. It would not be discovered, of course, until the seals were broken for contract validation on Coruscant.

Zoreina Mal Morisch stalked toward the exit, her mind becoming more and more lucid with every step. The Bith was waiting for her, his expression more arrogant than usual.

"What did you do?" she asked finally, as she cleared the conference room door. "How did you . . ."

"I," said the Bith smoothly, "did nothing, Madam. And I wouldn't be too fast and loose with the accusations if I were you. You signed the contracts, you know. And we have witnesses and a visual record to prove you were not coerced."

"But you know I would never . . ."

He leaned in, and she recoiled slightly from his sour odor. "What I know, Madam, is that you allowed yourself to be distracted - and visually seduced - by a common whore."

She drew herself up to her fullest height, which wasn't, after all, very tall, and regarded him with distaste. "I am prepared," she said, "to believe many things, but you will never convince me that _that_ was common, in any way."

"Why, thank you, My Lady," said that lovely cultured voice, and she looked around to see its owner standing propped against the door frame. He was still wet from his work-out and the shirt clung fetchingly, but she was not so susceptible now, having had some time to grow accustomed to the (still spectacular) sight.

"Common or not," she snapped, "it was a filthy trick, and a whore is still a whore. How can you . . . ."

He smiled, and replied in a whisper. "All is not always as it seems."

She started to walk away, then swung back and leaned in and claimed Obi-Wan's mouth in a breathless, bruising kiss, her tongue demanding, and getting, entry through lips overwhelmed by surprise.

When she pulled away, it was all she could do to take her eyes from that luscious mouth now swollen from the pressure of her passion. "If I had to get fucked," she muttered, "I at least deserve to get kissed in the process."

******************* ****************** ********************

 

The day, he hoped, had finally found its way to its end. The last light was bleeding away from the western horizon, and there was a faint scent of rain in the air.

Rain. At last. It should have rained all day. It should rain forever.

He knelt in the meditation garden, trying to gather the Force around him, trying to settle himself. Nothing was working.

All day, even as he had performed the prosaic, every day functions that everyone must deal with every day, he had felt the absence within him, the absence of a great fullness that usually hummed in the back of his mind. But today it was nowhere to be found. Today there was only emptiness.

The Force, like everything else in his life that mattered, or should have mattered, had retreated from him, left him behind.

He sighed as he sensed a familiar presence. He should talk about it; he knew that. But he didn't want to talk about it. He couldn't talk about it, because he still didn't know what to say.

He closed his eyes. Obi-Wan. The face appeared in his mind, and he traced each feature. Each beautiful, perfect feature. Each feature that could, so easily, sometimes touch his heart with a quickening pain, demanding that he acknowledge that this was his greatest treasure, that which he should cherish above all things.

_So why didn't he?_

_Why did he always throw him away?_

_Why?_

"Because he loves you," said a tired voice, seeming sometimes to grow wearier with each passing day. "And you've never forgiven him for forgiving you."

Qui-Gon shook his head and allowed himself a wry smile. "Master Yoda, I don't want to be disrespectful, but that makes no sense."

"Makes perfect sense, it does," retorted the tiny Master hotly, "if know yourself, you would."

But the towering Master remained unconvinced.

Yoda sighed dramatically. "Resolve this, we must, Qui-Gon," he said softly. "Risk Obi-Wan's future, I cannot. Even if it means taking him from you. But a mistake, this is. I know this."

"He may refuse me," replied Qui-Gon, almost succeeding in keeping his voice steady.

Yoda made a rude noise, surprising the younger Master into a rare smile. "The day Obi-Wan refuses you, Mace Windu will wear a skirt and high heels."

"You don't know . . . ."

"Will you be silent?" Yoda snapped. "I _do_ know. But this is not about Obi-Wan. This is about you. Time to let the past go, it is. Past time. Or will you cling to broken memories, and let the greatest treasure of your life slip through your fingers?"

Qui-Gon seemed to just collapse in on himself at that moment, lowering his head to his knees. "Master, I want to . . ."

"No." Yoda's voice was sharp. "Do not tell me you want to love him! For once in your life, Qui-Gon, open your heart. For you see, I know what lies there. I know, but you don't. And you never told him."

"I couldn't let it out; I couldn't take the chance that he . . ."

With an exasperated sigh, the tiny Master reached out and grasped the temples of his former student. When he began to speak, it was as if he were pouring his message directly into the towering Master's heart and soul. "Xanatos took your heart from you, Padawan, and, all this time, you've let him keep it. _Because you blamed yourself for his turning._ When Obi-Wan tried to tell you that it wasn't your fault, you wouldn't accept that. And when this precious child dared to love you, you told yourself that you were unworthy, and, since he was willing to love you anyway, he was unworthy as well. He forgave, what you considered unforgivable. And you've never gotten over it."

"No," whispered Qui-Gon, "I let it go, a long time ago."

"Never. Never did you let it go. Look at your reaction to this boy, and tell me you really let it go."

"Xani is . . ."

Yoda closed his eyes. "Evil, Qui-Gon. A child, he is, and a terrible pain it is to have to say it, but this boy has been created to do nothing but hate and destroy and cause pain and anguish. Seeking a way to save him, we are, but I have little hope we will succeed. He is filled with darkness."

"And Obi-Wan . . . ."

Yoda smiled. "Our child of Light. But doubt himself, he does. Know why, do you?"

A tear escaped a midnight blue eye and traced a path down a pallid cheek. "Because of me. Because I doubted him."

"Yes." Yoda saw no point in trying to spare the Master the same pain the apprentice was undoubtedly enduring.

Qui-Gon was silent for a while, cold tears brimming in his eyes, face lifted to welcome the rain when it started to fall.

"Let me go to him," he said finally. "Xani believes him to be in danger."

Yoda, like his former Padawan, ignored the increasing patter of the rain. "Tell me why you wish to go."

"It's my fault he's out there. If he dies . . .."

Yoda sighed. "It's still about you, then. Until it's about him . . ."

"I can't live without him," came the whisper.

Yoda nodded. "Know this, I do, and glad I am that you have come to see it, at last. But until your living is of secondary importance - until _his_ living is all that matters, here you will stay."

"But it is," cried the Master suddenly. "I would die for him; you know that."

The ancient Master blinked slowly. "Die for him, I know you would. That is not what is required."

"Please, tell me what you mean. I don't know how to convince you . . ."

Yoda turned slowly away and walked toward the Temple entrance, but he turned back finally, taking pity on the figure still huddled in the rain.

"Dying for him will help him not. When you are willing to live for him, then you will be ready."

The rain continued to fall, growing heavier and colder, and it was soon the perfect setting for departing spirits and breaking hearts.

****************** *************** ********************  
tbc


	22. Once in a Dream

Chapter 22: Once in a Dream

_Once in a dream I've seen myself through your eyes,_  
 _This you should know._  
 _Wading the stream that flows in between you and I,_  
 _Once in a dream,_  
 _And though the hour grows later and later_  
 _I would hold on for one more heartbeat_  
 _While my friends around me were calling_  
 _'Today, today, today, today'._

_\-----Believe It or Not_ \---- James Taylor

 

The healers' wing of the great temple was finally quiet after a day, thought Mirilent Soljan, that would live in infamy. It was the turning of the year, the traditional time for scheduling semi-annual check-ups for the very youngest initiates.

It was definitely not a time for contemplative reflection, and Mirilent's thoughts mimicked the turmoil of the day. She thought it entirely possible that she would be unable to produce a coherent sentence if her life depended on it. Coherence and initiate toddlers existed in mutually exclusive spheres of influence; of that she had no doubt.

But there was a thought, she acknowledged reluctantly. A thought that nothing and no one could dislodge from the stubborn grasp of her primal consciousness, the place in her mind where her most basic wants, needs, and fears existed and subsisted. Sometimes, for a while, she managed to block it out, to cover it with mundane noise and the screeching syllables of reality, but not often.

One tiny initiate, dark eyes entirely too bright (and too perceptive) had done absolutely nothing to help her in her attempts to subdue her pre-occupation. Little Jorgal, two years old, exquisitely beautiful, and starry-eyed with hero worship, had stared up at her and begged her to assuage his loneliness and ease his longing, without ever actually saying a word.

The question had stared at her from his eyes, just as it did from her own whenever she allowed herself a glimpse in a mirror. Which wasn't often. She didn't like facing the question.

It was a simple two-part question, albeit one with no simple answer: where was Obi-Wan Kenobi, and how could she get him back where he belonged?

Mirilent sank gratefully into her custom-formed desk chair, the only one in the wing that didn't swallow her tiny frame and force her to sit with her legs dangling in mid-air, and poured herself a generous dollop of Alderaanian cognac before turning to stare out into the semi-darkness that was as close as Coruscant ever got to full night. A fan of coral-streaked mauve still clung to the western horizon as the interminable day drew to its closing.

Mirilent kicked off the disreputable, scruffy old athletic shoes that she wore during her working hours, stretched and arched her bare feet before swinging them up to rest on her desktop, amid a hodgepodge of unbelievable clutter, and sat back to enjoy her forbidden pleasure.

"That stuff'll kill you," said a deep, rich voice from the doorway.

"Ummmm," she agreed, "but I'll die painless." She swirled the dark amber liquid in the crystal glass and paused to appreciate its tawny richness. "Come on in, Mace. If you stand there in the dark, you're going to get a reputation for lurking."

"Jedi councilors," he said sternly, "do not lurk."

"Right. They don't drink either, but you want a belt?"

He smiled. "A wee dram would be appreciated."

She retrieved a second snifter from the credenza behind her, and poured out a hefty portion.

When Master Windu was comfortably seated and enjoying the bouquet of the brandy, the Healer sighed deeply. "I haven't finished my report yet."

The dark Master nodded, but his eyes shone with insight. "But you have found what you were looking for. Haven't you?"

She shrugged. "I have, and I haven't. I'm never going to be able to provide the definitive information you want, and neither is anyone else. The science is too subtle, and, frankly, too much on the extreme cutting edge. I can only give you my best guesses, with some pretty fair forensic information to back it up. But it's still only guesswork, no matter how inspired. This is going to be one time when the proof really is in the pudding."

"Meaning?"

She sipped her brandy appreciatively. "Meaning I can give you theories, but the real empirical data is going to come from the measurable results. The effect, if you will, rather than the cause."

Mace swirled his glass in front of his face and allowed the rich aroma of the cognac to permeate the air. "Then how did they . . . "

Mirilent's expression became hard and cold, and her voice matched it exactly. "They probably used computer modeling for their initial projections, but there's only one way they perfected the craft."

"Experimentation?"

She nodded. "Probably started with primates, but they didn't stay there long. From everything I've been able to put together, their rate of progress was nothing short of astonishing, meaning they didn't waste much time on preliminaries. In less than two years, they'd dispensed with the opening acts, and gone straight to the main event."

The darkness that rose in the Master Jedi's eyes had nothing to do with the night descending rapidly now beyond the paristeel windows. "Sentient beings."

Again, she nodded. "Humanoids all." Her pause was heavy, stifling. "I suspect, if anyone bothered to take a good look, it wouldn't be too difficult to find where they disposed of their failures, and partial successes."

He waited, sensing that she needed a little time to find the words.

"N'Vell Aji," she said finally, "apparently has a lot in common with her brother. Namely, an extremely powerful intellect, and the morals of a Sith lord. Keeping in mind that I'm no geneticist, but I doubt it would make much difference if I were, I can give you some cut and dried facts about splicing genes and which DNA strands were manipulated and regrown, but it won't give you an understanding of what she did. Her research was - there's no other word for it - a revelation. The manipulation of the DNA in all the subjects was nothing short of remarkable. Apparently, in her earliest experiments, she realized that most of the Force abilities she was trying to recreate simply got lost somehow, somewhere along the way; the resulting clones were physically identical to the originals, but had no facility with the Force, except in a null sense. The Force affinity that she wanted to duplicate apparently just wasn't cloneable, for lack of a better word. It was probably just a fluke that created the exact opposite of what she sought. Instead of Force wielders, she got beings that were capable of blocking the Force, but N'Vell was quick to realize that, in its own way, such an ability could be just as powerful, and just as deadly, as access to the Dark Side. So she continued her efforts, and gradually perfected the ability of her creations to interfere with Force bonds and communications."

Windu was pensive. "Then how do you account for the boy, and Oomy?"

She sighed. "You're forgetting that the boy is not a clone. He's the biological offspring of two intensely powerful Force wielders, and, maybe even more to the point, he was also subjected to DNA manipulation, in vitro, by his darling auntie and his Sith-spawned father. I can tell you, if you're interested, exactly what they did, but I can't tell you how they figured out what to do. Somehow, N'Vell found a way to map the genetic markers that affect Force control, and then, through genetic manipulation, managed to increase both Xani's telepathic and shielding abilities. As far as I can tell, his other Force abilities are unaffected, but the enhancement of those two aspects allows him to focus his powers much more specifically than anyone else could, and to penetrate some shielding - even among Jedi Masters - that we once would have thought impregnable."

Large sable eyes widened abruptly, but she raised a placating hand. "Oh, it's all right now. I've had Force inhibitors and shield boosters added to the defensive screening around the children's quarters, and several of the more gifted adepts are augmenting the effect through constant meditation. That, plus our little secret weapon should render him fairly helpless."

Windu smiled. "OK. Tell me about the 'secret weapon'."

Mirilent sighed, and turned to gaze squarely into the Councilor's dark eyes. "The mighty Jedi," she said softly, "have had their asses saved by a tiny little girl, and a padawan that the order knifed in the back."

"Come on, Mira," he protested. "We didn't . . . ."

"Is he here?" she snapped. "Is he safe and sheltered by the power of the Jedi? Is he going to be?"

The Master sighed. "You know we had no choice."

She sipped her brandy and stared once more into the darkness. "Shall I tell you what I know, Mace? Or, at least, what I've come to believe?"

Something in her voice told him that he probably didn't want to hear what she had to say, but that he should listen anyway. "Go on."

She spoke slowly, as if choosing her words carefully. She was, after all, addressing one of the most powerful Jedi in the entire Temple. "I think that the Order has become a bureaucratic hierarchy, an interdependent, inbred, smug, self-important, arrogant club for backslappers who are not so much interested in promoting peace and justice as in perpetuating their own secure positions in the pecking order and discouraging the young rogues who might somehow disturb their complacency."

Mirilent sipped her brandy, staring at the dark Master across the rim of her glass. She was moderately surprised that he hadn't simply leapt across the desk and ripped her head off her shoulders. She was fairly certain that no one else had ever spoken to him in that manner.

"Do you really believe that?" he asked, after a long pause.

She nodded, finding that she was suddenly almost too weary to speak.

"Care to explain your reasoning?"

Her eyes narrowed, and the Master Jedi actually had to stifle an impulse to squirm under her gaze. "What does it say about the Order," she replied softly, "when the innocent party - the victim - is the one to be punished and sent away?"

"We didn't exactly . . . ."

"Don't you dare," she snapped. "Don't you dare hide behind the excuse that he wasn't 'exactly' sent away! No, of course not. He was just put in a position in which to stay meant to have to stand and watch as every dream he ever had was snatched from him and destroyed right before his eyes. Not to mention, that the one doing the destroying would be the one who's already ripped his heart out. Don't you dare, Mace Windu! Because if you do, I'm going to stand here and tell you that you couldn't do it, and neither could Master Fuckhead! That child - that _child_ \- stood and faced what you noble Masters did to him, with more courage and dignity - more Jedi honor - than any of you could have mustered, under the same circumstances."

"Mira . . . ." He might as well have tried calming a whirlwind, which, come to think of it, he probably could do, through the Force, but there was no method - Force-induced or otherwise - for calming the deep passion flowing from the woman before him.

She rose abruptly and leaned forward on her desk, hands fisted and white-knuckled. "And you want to know something else, Jedi Master? Something even more ironic? He's not even here any more, and he's still saving our asses. That, you see, is what N'Vell Aji failed to take into account. That is what will defeat her and save the political circus that the Jedi have become. Oomy is the duplicate of a K'hiria Melatian shaminan, and, apparently, she's also the very first fully functional clone of a Force-sensitive being. All the notes I can find suggest that the child was created using an actual reproductive cell from the original, and then placed in a maturation chamber that perfectly mimicked the natural birth process, although over a greatly extended period of time. As a result, all of her progenitor's abilities were recreated perfectly, maybe even enhanced."

"Explain," Windu demanded, determined to ignore the healer's anger and accusations.

She sighed. "Obi-Wan is the most gifted K'hiria Melatian ever brought to the Temple, Mace. His race, in general, is not Force gifted, but the ones who are, are extraordinarily so. The males seem to excel in the Unifying Force; the females tend to be extremely gifted telepaths and empaths. They have a unique ability to reach into the minds and hearts of others."

She paused and gazed into the darkness. "N'Vell Aji used her genetic manipulation skills to intensify and focus Oomy's abilities. The girl became, for all intents and purposes, a focusing laser, an amplifier for Force energy channeled through her. She was also given a biological imperative to respond to and obey commands from Aji herself. and, to a lesser extent, from Xani."

Mace was, by this time, thoroughly confused. "Then why . . .?

"Obi-Wan," answered Mirilent softly, hopelessly. "Obi-Wan. It appears that a K'hiria Melation shaminan has one more extremely powerful characteristic, one that Aji either failed to recognize or disregarded. Obi-Wan was meant - through the Force or fate or destiny or whatever you wish to call it - to be the biological mate of the woman after whom this child was fashioned. Aji apparently assumed that there would be no danger of a bond between them until the child approached puberty."

Mirilent smiled. "Fatal error. For this is no breeding bond, Mace. Not even a lifebond. This," she paused and allowed him to see the aching sadness in her eyes, "is a soul bond. And it overrides everything else that the child has been taught or programmed to do. She will not harm him, nor allow anything to happen to anyone he loves. Even if it kills her, which it might." 

The tall Master carefully set his snifter down and covered his face with his hands. Stoicism was more than a philosophy for Mace Windu; it was a way of life. But he was having trouble holding on to it today. In truth, he was having trouble controlling certain impulses, impulses startling in their savagery. An image kept playing out in his mind, like a reel of film caught in a feedback loop. He refused to allow himself to dwell on it, but it involved one very large Jedi Master, a boxing ring - and a lot of blood.

"He wants to go after him," he said finally, barely audible.

She nodded. "I know. But if he goes for the wrong reasons . . . "

"We know, but . . . ."

She upended her glass, draining the last of her brandy. "In the end," she said finally, "he's probably the only one who can. If anyone can."

"You think it's too late?"

Abruptly, she turned away from him, but not quite fast enough to keep him from seeing the tears brim in her eyes. "I think he's broken, Mace, and not for the first time. You didn't see him, didn't see what was in his eyes, didn't see the loneliness and hopelessness that covered him like a blanket. I have to wonder what happens when the break can't be mended any more. Is that what the Jedi have become? A heartless soulless group of smug reactionaries, more concerned with the letter of the code than with the spirit in which it was written? A group that comforts itself with platitudes, while it discards broken children?

"You know better, Old Friend."

But Mirilent was beyond consolation. "No, Mace. I don't." She turned back to look at him, and he was stricken by the desolation in her face. "And if we don't find a way to fix this, to go back to what we're supposed to be, then I don't want to be a part of this any more."

"You don't mean that, Mira. You're a Jedi."

Her eyes grew suddenly colder. "I'm a healer, Mace. And a wife and mother. And a woman who once opened her heart to a skinny little red-headed kid with the most beautiful eyes she'd ever seen. And that little kid moved right into that heart and grew to fill it. I've been as proud of Obi-Wan Kenobi as of my own children, and I've never known anyone more deserving of loyalty and affection. We both know how much of that he ever got, from the one person from whom he really wanted it."

She turned back to the darkness. "No, Mace. If this is what it is to be Jedi - to sacrifice the best and brightest of us, to mortgage our future in order to preserve the status quo, then we've lost our way and our right to exist, and I choose to walk away from the wreckage of what the Jedi once were, rather than become a part of the disease that's eating us alive."

 

*********************** ******************** ****************

 

Jedi serenity. That's all that's required. Just a bit of Jedi serenity, and the emotional control to refrain from bashing the Bith's brains out.

Obi-Wan managed, barely, not to shudder as Nanza's assistant presented him for the Hutt's approval, and nonchalantly kept his hot, gray hands braced against Obi-Wan's back.

Nanza chuckled softly. "Zotrulle, remove your hands from him."

Obi-Wan didn't bother trying to conceal his surprise.

The Bith, to his credit, did not cringe, but retorted with some spirit. "He's bought and paid for, Master. He hasn't any right to mind who touches him."

The Hutt leaned forward. "But he _does_ mind; that's obvious. And that's sufficient. Such a valuable little asset, I will not risk. Tell me, young one. Are you always so effective?"

Obi-Wan shrugged away from febrile Bith hands. "Mostly," he answered. "With compatible species, anyway."

The Hutt appeared to be deep in thought. After several moments, the massive creature twisted on his hoversled and depressed a switch on a control panel to his right. There was a soft pop, and Obi-Wan sensed that the Hutt had just engaged some sort of heavy, directional shielding, as his Force connection to the living world beyond this room was suddenly muffled and thinned.

"You could be extremely valuable to me, Little Human," said Nanza. "Let's try one more test, shall we? Do you require any maintenance?"

Obi-Wan suppressed a chuckle. "As a matter of fact, I could use a chance to freshen up, as well as a heads up on my next targets. I function much better when I know what I'm up against."

"You'll find a very pleasant 'fresher in my office, there beyond that alcove. Go and make yourself . . . presentable." Obi-Wan almost lost his concentration as he realized he's never heard a Hutt purr before. "When you're finished, I'll brief you on our next guests."

When the young Jedi disappeared through the arched doorway, a guard moved to stand beside it, and no one could have said for sure if his purpose was to limit the boy's movements or protect his person.

The Hutt gestured for Madam Gratta to attend him, and he regarded her solemnly as she moved forward, Solitaire and Jeb on either side of her. "I wish," said Nanzy firmly, "to buy him."

Gratta smiled. "I'm afraid that's impossible," she simpered. "He's not a slave."

The Hutt leaned forward. "Yet," he hissed.

Solitaire stood poised on the balls of his feet, his hands clenched as he allowed his gaze to sweep the room. Long odds, of course, but hardly insurmountable. Especially since no one else in the room knew that the boy was a Jedi.

But Gratta surprised the Weapons Master. "Not yet," she answered with a laugh, "and not at all. Way too headstrong and too willful. You'd kill him trying to break him, and that would be a real shame, wouldn't it?"

The Hutt laughed and nodded. "All right. Have it your way. Your rules?"

She grinned. "He makes his own rules. He likes pleasure, giving and taking. No S&M, no bondage, no pain. And you don't mark him. That's _my_ rule. He's much too valuable to bruise or scar."

It was several minutes before Obi-Wan emerged from the office, and it was immediately obvious that he'd taken the opportunity to 'gild the lily', so to speak. The pants and shirt were re-adjusted to allow the maximum exposure of smooth, tender skin with a minimum of effort; hair brushed to a copper gleam, skin faintly flushed, whether from excitement or artifice, who could say; he had even taken a moment to emphasize a beauty mark beneath his eye, darkening and enlarging it slightly, adding an extra measure of roguish charm to a face already entirely too blessed.

Once more, Madam Gratta was forced to hide a smile; the little tart really had missed his true calling in life. 

As Obi-Wan walked toward his three friends, Nanza moved forward and snagged the young Jedi with a tiny hand, leaned forward and whispered in the boy's ear. When the conversation ended, several minutes later, Obi-Wan looked up at the Hutt with a degree of surprise in his face as something - something very small - was tucked into his hand. Then he nodded before moving away.

"What's up?" asked Solitaire, barely audible.

"Plots within plots - within plots," replied the Jedi in a whisper, bending forward to adjust a boot cuff, and riveting every eye in the room in the process. "The Hutt wants to double-cross the Drimulans, but there's something else going on here, something elusive. I can't get into Nanza's head well enough to get the specifics, but be ready - just in case."

"Should I alert Rain?"

Obi-Wan glanced at the Weapons Master, noting that he was fingering a stud attached to the cuff of his gauntlet.

"Not yet," said the Jedi. "Let's see how it plays."

Suddenly, a massive pair of hands were grasping Obi-Wan firmly at the shoulders and turning him to face the gargantuan chest of his faithful bodyguard.

"Want me to go in with you?" rumbled Jeb.

Obi-Wan grinned. "I don't think they'd take the bait, Jeb, with you watching over me."

Jeb took a deep breath. "Don't like this," he said softly, pulling on Obi-Wan's shirt, trying to cover that which had been so fetchingly displayed.

Obi-Wan sighed. "Jeb, I told you already. I'm not nearly as breakable as . ."

"How'll I know?" insisted the huge Corellian.

"How'll you know what?"

"If you need help."

"Just keep your ears open," Obi-Wan laughed. "If you hear the sound of a lightsaber igniting . . ."

He made a semi-obscene gesture with his hand, and walked away toward the conference room, leaving his three companions staring after him.

Jeb spoke first, barely audible. "Is he kidding?"

"I don't think so," replied Gratta, still amazed and amused by the boy's audacity.

The big Corellian looked over at Solitaire who was shaking his head. "Don't ask," said the Weapons Master. "Because A. I don't know, and B. I don't want to know."

 

******************* ********************** ******************

 

Zotrulle and his minor functionaries were already seated at the conference table when Obi-Wan made his entrance, and an impressive entrance it was, despite being somewhat low key.

The young Jedi ambled around the circumference of the room, pausing here and there to examine anything that caught his eye, from a gem-crusted silk tapestry depicting creatures out of Alderaanian mythology, to a view of the overcrowded casino where a disgruntled twi'lek was being bodily ejected from the premises. The management had little patience for sore losers.

As he moved, making every effort to remember to walk and hold himself like a body-for-hire, Obi-Wan gradually became aware of a sibilant twitching in the Force; something akin, he thought, to an itch that was demanding to be scratched - sooner or later. Still ambling along, he began to cast out tendrils of Force energy, seeking the source of the sensation.

He found Ciara almost immediately, and smiled. Definitely no twitch there, though if the Sullustan who was annoying her didn't cease and desist, post haste, she was going to administer a lot more than a twitch.

 _Serenity, Padawan_. He sent the message with a venal smile.

 _Screw yourself, Kenobi. Assuming nobody else is._ The return was instantaneous.

_Very funny. You'll be glad to hear that I remain unscrewed. But do you feel . . ._

_For the last few minutes. Any idea what it is?_

He smiled again, acknowledging to himself that sometimes it was nice not to have to use complete sentences. _No, but I think it's here, in this room. Or very close, anyway._

The silence in his mind was suddenly deafening, and her reply, when it came, was small and tentative. _Watch yourself, Obi. This is . . . this is very bad. It's so dark, it's . . . Be very careful._

_Hey! This is me - remember?_

_Ummm, that's what scares me. We're coming that way._

_No, wait . . ._

_My Master says to shut up. We'll be discreet, but we're still coming._

He started to argue further, then felt a curious flexing along his nerve endings, and could suddenly almost taste the coppery bitterness of the Dark Force.

A man stood framed in the doorway of the conference room, and the chill that had been racing through Obi-Wan's bloodstream decided, suddenly, to settle in the pit of his stomach. The Jedi leaned back against the wall beside the windows overlooking the casino, and studied the tall figure that strode toward him, as direct and unswerving as a guided missile.

He knew the face, had familiarized himself with all the particulars of the leaders of the Drimulan authority.

Brath Ozvey. General Brath Ozvey. Tall. Well-built. Muscular. Graceful. A handsome man - a man comfortable in his own body, in his own skin. A man accustomed to power, accustomed to the mantle of authority, accustomed to being obeyed.

The general stopped directly in front of Obi-Wan, no more than a foot away. Almost - but not quite - invading his personal space.

Obi-Wan remained completely still, eyes hooded by lowered lashes, hands folded across his chest.

"Well, what have we here?" said the General, allowing himself a small smile. "Zotrulle, your Master's taste has taken a turn for the better, it seems."

The Bith huffed its characteristic laugh. "That seems to be the consensus, General Ozvey. This is Ben. He is here for your . . . convenience."

Obi-Wan didn't bother to conceal the flare of anger in his eyes as he glanced at the Bith.

"Indeed? How very thoughtful of Nanza." Being considerably taller than the young Jedi, the general continued to stare down into his face, waiting.

When Obi-Wan finally raised his eyes to meet that cold, steely stare, Ozvey smiled. "Perhaps your young 'convenience' could use some lessons in how to defer to his betters. He seems . . . reluctant."

Zotrulle glared at Obi-Wan, as the young Jedi continued to return the general's glare, with absolutely no sign of docility or timidity.

For a moment the air between them almost appeared to crackle and snap, until the moment was broken - by a sultry laugh. "Oh, Brath, how perfectly ridiculous! Are you really going to indulge in a staring match with this pretty little toy?"

"Enough!" snapped the Bith. "Ben, behave yourself. See to our guests."

Obi-Wan smiled, and anyone who knew him well would have known that it was a smile that did not bode well for whoever might be stepping into his path.

He turned to the woman who stood behind Ozvey, and almost stumbled as a wave of darkness swept through him. He looked up, but found that her face and most of her body were concealed by layers of sheer veiling, swirled with bands of lace and silk embroidery. Nothing was visible beyond the sapphire brilliance of her eyes and the sooty darkness of the lashes around them.

Yet, there was something familiar here. Something he felt he should know; something that rose in distant memory and nudged him with sharp teeth. He also noted that another person had entered the room, but kept to the shadows near the entrance, and did not remove the heavy gray cloak that swirled around him. Once more, the young Jedi felt a prickle of anxiety, a twinge of unease.

Obi-Wan inhaled deeply, and reached out for the Force. It was a bit harder to reach than usual, slightly camouflaged by the swirls of darkness that sought to encompass him. But, in the end, it was there, and it spoke to him in the same loving voice it always used when touching his mind.

He was vaguely aware that Ciara was in the process of going ballistic as she tried to reach his thoughts, but he had no time to listen to her now. He was much too busy listening to the Force which, once he was opened to it, was almost singing through his veins.

The general and his veiled companion took their seats at the conference table, as a short, plump Rhodian took his place beside the female. Obi-Wan moved to the bar and prepared a tray of drinks, while Zotrulle distributed a stack of datachip binders.

The Bith then paused and looked through a magnetic case, as if he had misplaced something, while Obi-Wan began to circle the table. As he approached the Rhodian, who accepted a glass of Bothan wine, Zotrulle began to speak.

"I think you'll find everything in order, Gentlefolk. Once the transfer is complete, we will activate the electronic authorizations to enable you to access data and command codes for the transports. If you like, you may examine the schedules, the routes, and, of course, the security precautions we've had installed. If you have any questions . . ."

"What if," said the Rhodian quickly, "someone breaks these codes?"

"Impossible," replied Zotrulle. "Without the decryption devices, the codes are virtually unbreakable. And, since the transports are already en route, no one will have access to them from the shipping end. It's really quite foolproof."

General Ozvey inserted a datachip into a reader recessed into the table top, and scanned the data revealed on its screen. "Impressive," he remarked shortly. "If you can actually deliver as promised. Are your facilities actually geared for such massive production?"

Zotrulle smiled. "We have an endless supply of power, General, perpetual power, constantly producing, and instantly replaceable. Production will not be a problem."

Obi-Wan was careful to keep his head lowered so no one would note the horror in his eyes as he spared a moment's thought to the 'perpetual power' that drove the Hutts' factories: slave labor - cheap, easily obtained, and always available.

With a faint shudder, the young Jedi bent forward and presented his tray to the General's veiled companion. Instead of accepting a stemmed glass, she turned toward him. "Ben," she said softly, "wasn't it?"

"Yes, My Lady."

She laughed softly. "Oh, my, but you are totally delectable, Ben. Where did Nanza find you?"

He smiled. "I get around."

Sooty lashes swept down over cerulean blue eyes, as she let her gaze fall across his body like a breath of hot wind. "You mustn't allow yourself to 'get around' too much, Lovely Ben. It would be a shame to waste such perfection, on those too common to appreciate it."

He looked directly into her eyes. "And could you appreciate it, My Lady?"

Again she laughed. "Oh, absolutely, Little Ben. Would you like that?"

"I might, though I can't be sure, until I see if the rest of you matches the loveliness of your eyes. May I know your name, My Lady?"

She leaned forward, extending a pale, slender hand, gloved except for the very tips of the fingers. "You may call me Destiny, Ben."

"Destiny," he repeated in a whisper, taking the proffered hand and touching it to his lips. Once again, Jedi control was pushed to its limits as darkness pooled around him. He managed to pull away from her, maintaining his smile and not, he hoped, revealing the depth of his revulsion. He did not yet know who she was, but he had little difficulty determining what she was.

Obi-Wan moved forward until he was at General Ozvey's side, bent forward, and extended the drinks tray. "If you don't see anything you like, General," he said softly, seduction dripping from every syllable, "I'll be happy to find something else for you."

Ozvey retrieved the datachip from the reader and dropped it back into the binder, which he flipped closed before turning his attention to the young man bending toward him. The general smiled. "I'll bet you say that a lot, Little One."

"Not as much as you'd think, General," breathed the Jedi. 

Ozvey's eyes widened, as he turned his luxurious swivel chair to face the vision in leather. "Cheeky little snot, aren't you?"

Obi-Wan grinned and, allowing himself a momentary resentment of the Force compulsion that was driving him, actually swung one leg across Ozvey's thighs and settled himself lightly, a glass of smoky Endorian ale in his hand. "Why don't you try a sip of this? It's very . . . seductive and sultry. Perfect for you."

The general looked like someone who had never before in his life been shocked into speechlessness, but was now. Reflexively, instinctively, he braced his hands on Obi-Wan's leather clad thighs, and dragged a deep, remarkably shaky breath through clenched teeth. Wordlessly, he allowed the boy to tilt the cup to his lips, as Obi-Wan leaned forward, one hand trailing long fingers over the outside of Ozvey's thigh before falling to rest atop the attache case sitting upright on the floor.

Across the table, Zotrulle was careful to hide his smile, and his reaction to the sounds coming to him through his subdermal link to his Hutt master. Nanza was almost crowing.

Obi-Wan leaned back, and regarded the General solemnly, the silk of his shirt slipping from one shoulder, as he allowed his arms to slide back across the table. "Well?" he said softly. "Does it please you?"

Ozvey surged forward abruptly, pinning Obi-Wan's torso between the span of strong, rigid arms. "You assume much, young Ben. What if I don't like boys?"

The young Jedi shrugged. "Then you simply drink the ale. But" - the smile was irrepressible - "everybody likes me."

For a moment, it appeared that the boy might have gone too far; Ozvey's face was a frozen mask.

Then he laughed, and traced the palm of one hand along the line of Obi-Wan's jaw. "My compliments to your Hutt Master, Zotrulle," he said, obviously still amused. "Since he bears no mark, I assume he is not a slave?"

"No," answered the Bith, with a sigh. "He is a contract player."

"Pity," remarked the General. "I rather think there are those who would gladly pay a king's ransom for him."

Obi-Wan rose and looked down at Ozvey, still smiling. "There are those," he said softly, "who already do."

When he sauntered away, he left the general chuckling softly. In the next chair, the veiled female was very still, very silent, but a quick glance revealed the searing heat flashing in the depths of cerulean eyes.

"If you've now been sufficiently entertained," said the Bith heavily - Obi-Wan thought that the Hutt's assistant would do better to avoid any attempt at sarcasm - "perhaps we can get on with the transfer?"

"Of course," said the General, withdrawing a cybertronic transfer device from his briefcase. "All seems to be in order. First delivery in three days, and bi-monthly thereafter until the order is complete. Although we do wish to reserve the right to review pricing as time goes on. We are, after all, buying a huge volume of product; it seems only logical to expect some price breaks as we progress."

Obi-Wan, deliberately not indulging an urge to grin, deposited his tray of drinks on the bar, and moved to the exit, simultaneously reaching out through the Force, broadcasting a brief, smug message. _Mission accomplished._

He was actually in the doorway, lifting his hand to beckon his companions to his side, when he felt it - a flexure in the Force - a warning.

"Oh, Ben," said the voice, very calm, very controlled, very cold.

"Yes?" He turned back to face the conference room. The General was standing at the table, arms crossed, face grim.

"You didn't really think you'd get out of here with it, did you?"

He knew immediately that there was no point in feigning ignorance. "I thought I might," he answered pertly. "After all, I feel like I paid for it."

"How so?" Ozvey was walking toward him now, hand outstretched.

Obi-Wan took half-a-step backwards and, out of the line of sight of the advancing General, slipped a datachip-sized object from the cuff of his shirt and tossed it toward the platform on which Nanza's hoversled usually rested. He then gestured for his friends to come forward.

"It's not every day," replied the padawan, "that I'm called on to let myself sink to the level of pond slime. Right now, I'm not sure which sounds better to me; getting out of here with what I came for, or washing your stench off my skin."

Ozvey laughed. "Brave words, Little Whore. Let's see how brave you are when you're at the tender mercies of my men. And, oh, my, are they going to love you!"

"You'll forgive me," retorted Obi-Wan, "if I beg to differ." He was now slowly backing through Nanza's audience room.

"I'm looking forward to your begging," said the General, "for many, many things."

Obi-Wan stopped abruptly, and things at that point happened very quickly.

 _I got trouble here._ The message was sent, in the same exact instant that the actinic brilliance of an azure lightsaber blade sprang into existence, and in the exact same instant that Solitaire and Jeb surged forward to cover Obi-Wan's flanks, as Madam Gratta moved toward the suite's entrance, and in the exact same instant when Solitaire remembered his preference not to know where that lightsaber had come from.

 _Yeah, well, join the crowd, Boy Wonder._ That message was received, in the exact same instant that a platoon of Drimulan mercenaries burst through a previously unnoticed exterior entrance to the Hutt's suite. _Some bounty hunter managed to identify the Ghost, and it's getting really interesting!_

_Well, shit!_

_Oooh, wonderful use of Force communication, Kenobi. The Council would be so impressed._

_Can you manage down there?_

He got a quick mental picture of two lightsabers - deep emerald and amethyst - and of huge Gamorrhean security guards being lifted and slammed into metal doors. _There are two of us here. Remember? And one of us is a Master! Care to rephrase?_

A flurry of blaster bolts raced from the Drimulan force as they surged forward, but Obi-Wan's blade was a blur of azure as he easily deflected the fire. Unfortunately, from the Drimulan's viewpoint, they had nothing to deflect the deadly accuracy of Solitaire's shots. Jeb, in the meantime, was drawing a bead on Brath Ozvey, who had decided to exercise the better part of valor, and secrete himself behind a substantial wall until the fire fight was ended.

The Drimulans continued to move forward, but much more slowly, as Solitaire's lethal barrage, as well as their own shots, deflected back at them, began to take a severe toll.

"Obi," said Jeb, as he fired again - vainly - in an attempt to vaporize the Supreme Commander of the Drimulan army, "they'll bring in reinforcements, any minute now. We need to get out, now!"

"He's right," said Solitaire. "This is as good as it gets."

"Go," said Obi-Wan. "I'll cover you."

"No," said Jeb loudly. "You can't . . ."

"Jeb," said the Weapons Master, "yes, he can. Better than either one of us. Now go, so you don't distract him and force him to make a mistake."

It was obviously not something the big Corellian wanted to allow, but, in the end, he accepted what he could not change, and led the charge to the exit, where Madam Gratta was waiting for them. Obi-Wan was marginally surprised to find that she was neither panicked nor immobilized when they made good their escape to the corridor.

"Stairs," barked the Jedi, not daring to take his eyes from the doorway as they raced away from it. It was only a matter of seconds before the Drimulan mercenaries came bolting into the corridor, blasters blazing. Obi-Wan continued to deflect the deadly fire, his eyes only partially open, the Force singing in his thoughts. "No elevators to get trapped in."

Solitaire spared a half-thought to marvel at his dexterity and grace as they tore down the broad hallway and plunged into a winding stairwell.

There was a lull in the blaster fire from behind them as they moved beyond the line of sight of their pursuers, but the sounds coming up from below them were just as intense, if not more so. Thankfully, however, there were also the unmistakable sounds of lightsabers cutting through the air.

Solitaire jerked his head up to stare at Obi-Wan. "More Jedi?" he demanded.

Obi-Wan grinned. "You guys must have been living right."

"You knew?"

"Not til we got here," came the response, distracted now, because the fire from above had resumed. "Can we discuss this later, when someone is not trying to carve us into rib roasts?"

They hit the landing at a dead run and plunged through the double doors into the main lounge. 

_Ciara, come to me._ The message was sent before he really completed the thought.

_Screw that! You come to me._

_Ciara . . ._

_Don't give me orders, Kenobi._

_Ciara . . ._

_What?_ There was definitely a thick thread of annoyance, evident even in her mental voice.

_Um, I'm closer to the front door._

_Oh!_ He caught a quick image of a red-face and a shrug. _Then stay there. We're coming to you. If I can convince this frigging pirate to co-operate._

Obi-Wan grinned. "Solitaire, tell Rain to follow the Jedi toward us. With a little luck, we might all actually get out of here alive."

Solitaire - faceless as always beneath his armor - still somehow managed to convey his skepticism. Nevertheless, he made the call as requested.

"Come on," said the young Jedi, "let's clear the way."

It seemed that the entire world had decided to take sides in this little conflict, although, in actual fact, there were plenty of beings who had simply taken shelter under any convenient piece of furniture, opting to observe rather than participate. This made for a less than ideal situation for the Jedi, and those they strove to protect, as they could not allow any loss of innocent lives. The opposition, of course, had no such qualms, and Obi-Wan watched as a tall woman in skin-tight clothing, with a switch of red hair falling from an otherwise bald pate, swept an arc of blaster fire across a broad swath of the casino's floor, following Fer'mia's group as they retreated. He quickly looked toward Solitaire, who followed the direction of the Jedi's gesture, and unleashed his own flurry of shots, sending the woman to her knees behind an upturned table. But Obi-Wan was forced to concede that she was a real pro, when there was no appreciable pause in her assault.

Nevertheless, the Ghost and his crewmen, along with the Jedi, managed, at last, to fight their way through the barrage of blaster bolts, stun grenades, energy darts, and even a few explosive projectiles, to come together just within the grand entrance of the great casino. 

At this point, there was an instant realignment, and, somehow, there was an almost audible collective sigh, signalling renewed hope. It was a fairly large group, and there was no way a contingent of only three Jedi could hope to provide full coverage protection for all of them, but, somehow, everybody seemed to believe that they could do just that.

The three formed a moving perimeter, darting, leaping, twisting, almost dancing in their efforts to anticipate and dispel every perceived threat. This, combined with the deadly precision of counterattacks by Solitaire, Arain Fer-mia, Palani Vau-Bretayne, and others, allowed the group to force their way through the stiff resistance, and emerge from the huge structure into the furor of a raging thunderstorm.

"Go, go," urged Fer'mia to his crew. "Get back to the _Lady._ "

"What about you?" shouted Palani.

"I'll take care of him," yelled Obi-Wan. "Just go, before they trap us all here."

Obviously reluctant, but knowing she had no choice, Palani took off at a dead run, most of the group on her heels.

"Come on," barked Obi-Wan, grabbing Fer'mia's arm and taking off down the street, gesturing for Ciara and her Master to follow.

"Obi, wait," shouted Solitaire. "That's the wrong way. Don't you . . "

Obi-Wan shook his head. "Trust me. This way."

Using a trace of Force enhancement, the young Jedi compelled the group to follow him, even though some of them knew, for a certainty, that the _Morning Angel_ 's berth lay in a different direction. 

They were moving very quickly, but not quite quickly enough, it seemed, as blaster fire erupted behind them. The three Jedi, of course, could have resorted to the Force to increase their speed, and could probably even have managed, with Force assistance, to bear Fer'mia, Solitaire, and Madam Gratta along with them, but Jeb was just entirely too massive for them to make the attempt. It would have been possible, of course, but it would have required co-ordination they had no time to develop.

Obi-Wan tore around the corner of a huge bridge abutment, and raced into a vast equipment storage lot, which was mostly empty.

"Not much cover here, Kid," shouted Solitaire, knowing that their pursuers would not be far behind them.

Obi-Wan stopped abruptly, causing Ciara to plow into his back. Fortunately, both had sufficiently quick reflexes to allow him to catch her, and her to refrain from throttling him for causing the mishap.

"What are you . . . "

"Shhh!" Obi-Wan's eyes were closed, and he seemed to be reaching out through the Force, but she could get no sense of what he was reaching for.

"Don't you shush me, Kenobi. What are you . . ."

"Shhh!" He actually looked as if he were annoyed with her.

He lifted his hands slowly, seemingly oblivious to everything around him, including the heavy rain that seemed to be increasing.

It was Fer'mia who finally realized what he was doing; Fer'mia who smiled in spite of the miserable sensation of pounds of prosthetic formate affixed to his skull in various spots, now being reduced to sticky glop.

Obi-Wan opened his eyes, his face a picture of serenity as he regarded the smuggler with a smile. "If you guys think I'm running the two miles back to the ship, in wet leather pants that were three sizes too small _before_ they got wet, think again."

A whisper of sound was the only announcement of the arrival of the _Morning Angel_ as she settled to the pavement, just meters away from her captain.

"Neat trick," said Fer'mia. "When did you realize you could do this?"

Obi-Wan grinned. "About five minutes ago."

Ramal Dyprio moved toward the lovely little ship, dark eyes filled with laughter. "Dare we ask how you figured it out?" he said smoothly.

The younger Jedi paused just long enough to lay a proprietary hand on the hull. "She told me."

"The ship told you?" Ciara's skepticism was blatant.

Obi-Wan laughed. "All aboard, Folks. Unless you want to stay and visit with the locals. I'll be happy to answer your questions, once we're out of here."

"Obi," said Fer'mia, still not moving to the boarding ramp, "did you get it?"

The Jedi nodded. "Oh, I got it, Rain. In fact, I got it twice."

"Meaning?"

The smile was as bright as sunlight. "I got the one they practically presented to me on a platter, and I got the real one, the one they didn't want us to see."

"You want to explain that?"

A flurry of blaster bolts erupted around them. "Not right now," shouted Obi and they all leapt for the safety of the entry hatch.

Ten minutes later, the sylph-like loveliness of the sleek vessel shook off the bonds of gravity that attempted to tether her to the dark moon, and streaked away into the spectacle of night.

Obi-Wan rose from the pilot's seat, allowing Ramal Dyprio and Ciara to move into position to study the configuration and unbelievable technology of his beautiful ship, and walked into the common room, aft of the cockpit.

Rain Fer'mia and Solitaire were seated at adjacent consoles, reviewing communications and mission data.

Obi-Wan carefully pushed a single finger into a slit in the seam of leather pants now excruciatingly tight and pulled out a small datachip. He held it up and smiled. "Bait," he said softly. "You can run it through the decryption devices; it'll probably present some difficulty before the codes come through, but it's all just gibberish anyway."

"How do you know?" asked the captain. "I mean, they didn't . . ."

"The Force," answered the Jedi. "It kept telling me this was a set-up. And then Ozvey practically shoved it at me, as he was pretending to be mesmerized by the sight of my butt. It was just too much. It's a fake."

Fer'mia smiled. "And the real one?"

Obi-Wan lifted fingers to his face and gently pealed off the black spot that all had assumed was an enhanced beauty mark.

Solitaire almost chuckled. "Where'd you get that one?"

The Jedi deposited the tiny microchip into an anti-magnetic holder. "You'd think that someone as rich, and as devious, as Nanza would have a better security vault in his office."

From the cockpit, there was a bark of laughter. "How long did it take you to open it?" called Dyprio.

Obi-Wan grinned. "Thirteen seconds, and change."

"Wow!" said Fer'mia. "You should have been a jewel thief."

Solitaire was studying the Jedi's face. "What else?"

"What do you mean?"

"When you were backing away from Ozvey," said the Weapons Master, "you threw something away. Something small, like a micro-scanner, or a datadisk."

The grin grew almost lethal. "Just a little surprise for our Drimulan friends. No more than they deserve for doing business with a Hutt."

"Obi?" Fer'mia just waited, knowing that the young Jedi understood all too well the obligations inherent in swearing fealty to a cause - and a leader.

"I just passed a molecular sensor over the attache case that contained their bank transfer chips," Obi-Wan replied, his face a picture of perfect innocence. "Something, as you know, that will only work in close proximity, and when the protective Force field around the case has been deactivated. Of course, I don't know for sure, but I have an idea they might find their funds substantially depleted when they next try to access their fiscal accounts."

With a shout of laughter, Arain Fer'mia jumped to his feet, grabbed the young Jedi, and lifted him off his feet with a huge hug. "You know what, Kid? I don't have a clue if we have any chance at all of beating the odds and coming out on top in all this. Hell, I don't even know if we have a chance of being alive tomorrow. But I wouldn't have missed this ride for all the credits in the galaxy."

Obi-Wan grinned. "You know, Cap, your declaration would be much more dignified - and impressive - if you didn't have one horn drooping over your eye and the other one sliding behind your ear."

Fer'mia stepped back and regarded Obi-Wan critically. "That might be so, Kid, but if you don't get out of those wet pants, preferably within the next five minutes, you're going to be singing soprano in a boys' choir. Permanently."

"Oh, my gods," shouted Ciara from the cockpit, almost screaming with delight, "I have died and gone to heaven. Obi-Wan, get up here _now_ and teach me how to do this."

"In a minute, Chi," he replied. "I have to perform an extraction first."

She stuck her head through the open hatch and eyed him quizzically. "An extraction?"

"Yeah," he laughed. "Me, from these pants."

As he headed for his cabin, Ciara's face was alight with mischief. "Hey! You never did tell me where you stashed your lightsaber."

He kept walking, but tossed her a grin over his shoulder. "That's right. I didn't."

 

*************** ****************** *****************

Even the speeder bikes on Haven, or rather the analogs of those utilitarian vehicles, were sleek and beautifully designed and sensually pleasing. They were built to provide stability and comfort, but without any reduction in the thrill factor, should one choose to access it.

Obi-Wan chose.

The day was drawing to a close now, and shadows were long and growing deeper, providing lovely contrasts between bright golden light, as warm and thick as pargua syrup, and deep lavender shade. The air was still quite warm, but there was the faintest taste of chill beneath it, as if night were already stretching its fingers to stroke the receding spine of day.

He was traveling too fast; he knew that. Knew that, had he still been under the influence of that which had guided his life in the past, he would have been chided to slow down, to center himself, to seek serenity.

He didn't want to seek serenity; serenity would not provide his answers.

She would provide his answers.

And he had finally figured out where to go to find her - and his answers.

The gateway was ahead of him, just a few minutes ahead now, according to the Force, which had led him here.

He knew he probably should have delayed this trip; knew there were many things he should have been doing. But he could not discount the urgency that had risen within him. He needed to do this, and he needed to do it now, and he could only hope that his insistence would not prove costly in the long run.

The datachips he had retrieved from the casino had been successfully decrypted - both of them - and his time was growing very short.

Tomorrow he would take the _Morning Angel_ and depart this lovely place, to attempt to prevent the delivery of the Sith-spawned devices that would bring the hopeless desolation of total slavery to Drimula, if not stopped. There could be no delay.

But he needed to do this first. Not for the mission. Not for the cause. Not - he smiled to himself - for the Jedi. He needed to do this, for himself. He needed to know if what he had come to believe was true, and this was his only way of finding out.

He was deep in the forest now, where the light took on a different quality, a verdant brilliance that almost sang of the intensity of life, an intensity that was thick with pulsed energy, like the heartbeat of some great primeval beast.

A clearing opened up before him, and he coasted to a stop, smiling. Just meters ahead, a pool formed at the base of a slender column of water that spiraled from a cliff lost in mist above him. In the spray of the water, light danced and coiled around itself, colored light, constantly shifting. Light that had nothing to do with the almost cohesive radiance surrounding the little glen.

The gate.

Obi-Wan smiled, and then smiled wider as he heard the call.

A gentle sigh, and then: _Come, Love - but you must be quick._

Later, he would not remember dismounting from the bike, or moving through the dappled light, or wading through the pool.

He would only remember the vision that confronted him as he moved from the dimension in which he lived - had always lived - into one he was, perhaps, never meant to see.

She was waiting.

Saischel - exactly as he had imagined her. Exactly as he had known she would be. Beautiful. Exquisite. Radiant. And meant for him, as he was meant for her.

She was in his arms, and he, in hers, before he had completely cleared the gateway.

It was debatable which of them was more delighted with the other.

"So beautiful," he murmured, his lips against the curtain of her hair. "I knew you. Even before I knew _about_ you, I knew you."

"Yes," she answered, and the lyrical quality of her voice stroked his consciousness. "But you should not have come here, my Darling. You cannot stay here."

"But . . ."

They seemed to be standing on the verge of some great, silent sea, with drifts of mist all around them.

She settled to the ground and pulled him down with her, and he thought it was a swath of soft sand on which they sat, but he couldn't be sure.

"Obi-Wan," she said gently, "this place does not - cannot - exist in your dimension. And you cannot exist here."

"Then what is it? What is this place?"

She smiled, and the way she reached out to touch his face spoke of an aching need and an endless loneliness. "The beings who built what you call Haven, also built this inter-dimensional conduit. It bridges different realities."

"Then why can't I. . ."

"Because it's closed down, my Love. They no longer use it, and no one really knows why." She smiled. "There are some who think this galaxy - this dimension - was simply a bit too intense, for the taste of the builders. Too raw and wild and untamed. But no one really knows. For whatever reason, it no longer functions as a transit system."

He wondered suddenly if he would remember what it was she was saying; he was much too entranced with the manner in which she was saying it, and with the way the gentle glow of the air around them pooled in her rain-gray eyes. She was the most exquisite woman he had ever seen.

She smiled suddenly and, as if unable to stop herself, leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. He, of course, was immediately lost, pulling her to him and drowning in the sensation of her sweet, soft mouth.

"Obi, my love," she gasped, pulling free, "we can't do this. You can't do this."

"You keep saying that. Why can't I?"

"Obi-Wan, this is not a place for the living. Only the dead walk here."

"But you're not . . ."

"Yes," she said softly, "I am. Because of the inter-dimensional nature of this conduit, the walls between the different phases of the Force are thinner. That's what enables me to speak to you when you are nearby. It's why you're able to be here now. But it's only temporary, Obi-Wan. It's constantly shifting, phasing in and out. You cannot stay here."

He reached down, and gathered a small handful of sand. When he opened his hand, instead of pouring back to the ground, it simply floated away from his fingers. "What if I wanted to stay?"

"Love, you can't . . ."

He looked up at her. "I know what you said. I can't _live_ here. Does that mean I can't stay here?"

He saw tears rise in her eyes. "Oh, my Love, no. Please. You have so much life ahead of you. So much left to see and explore. So much . . ."

The shadows in her eyes grew huge. "So much?" he prodded, fairly sure he was seeing more than she wished him to see. Obi-Wan's greatest strength, after all, was in the Unifying Force. He had long ago seen things that he would have preferred not to have seen.

She cupped his face with gentle fingers. "You still have much to do, my Love. Before you can come to me."

He sighed. "Will you . . ."

"Always. Until time itself runs out, I will be here. We will be together, my Love. I promise you."

He reached for her again, marveling at the luminous quality of her skin, the radiance of her eyes, the softness of her hair. A kiss, begun chastely, flared suddenly into a white heat, and he felt passion stir deep within him.

He pulled away, gasping for breath, his eyes devouring her, asking.

She smiled. "Yes, Love. For just this moment. But you must promise me something first."

"Anything."

She laughed. "Typically male, no matter how beloved."

He chuckled softly. "I didn't mean for it to sound like that."

Once more, she waited until he looked deep into her eyes. "You know that the corridor to Haven is closing," she said softly, waiting for his nod. "It will remain closed, with the planetoid inaccessible, for just over twenty-four galactic cycles. Obi-Wan, you must bring the children of Mejanis here, before it closes completely."

"What? Why?" His confusion was obvious. "Why should I do that?"

She smiled. "They are a great danger, my Love, to many, many people. This is known to us. Yet, in their own way, they are innocent, and there is no justice in punishing them for crimes not yet committed."

"But if we bring them here, they'll be . . ."

"Safe," she said softly. "If droids are provided to see to their needs until they're old enough to care for themselves. It isn't a perfect solution; the problem won't just go away in 24 cycles, but it buys enough time for solutions to be sought and found. You must do this, Obi-Wan. Promise me."

"I don't know if it's my decision to make," he answered.

She smiled. "Ultimately, it will be. Promise me."

He heaved a deep breath. "If I can, I promise."

She sighed softly, contentment rising in her eyes. "You can't stay here long, my Love. A few hours, at most. Any longer, and you risk being trapped here."

"Trapped," he echoed, lost in the loveliness of her eyes. "With you. I can think of worse ways to spend eternity."

She leaned in to nuzzle the soft skin beneath his jaw. "When the time is right," she whispered, "eternity will be our playground."

He took her in his arms and pressed warm kisses to her throat and shoulders. "What about the next hour?" he asked.

She laughed softly. "Shall we see how much eternity we can squeeze into the remains of the day?"

His response was lost in the growing fire of her kiss.

************ ****************** ************* 

tbc


	23. The Fittest Place

Chapter 23: The Fittest Place

_But whether on the scaffold high_  
_Or in the battle's van,_  
_The fittest place where man can die_  
_Is where he dies for man!_

\------Michael J. Barry (Circa 1815): _The Dublin Nation, Sept. 28, 1844_

The Catling's Eye Nebula, despite its overwhelming beauty, was truly a dreadful place, a quadrant of space/time that had claimed more than its share of lives and hopes, a sea in which fierce ion storms and magnetic gales battled against gravitic anomalies and dark matter maelstroms, resulting in a constant roiling turbulence that discouraged any but the most determined star voyager from venturing anywhere close.

It was, however, perfect for one purpose; it was one of the best hiding places in the galaxy, big enough to contain a sizeable fleet, and charged with sufficient energy, of every possible type, to render sensor scans completely worthless, whether from within or without its boundaries. The only problem with using it for such a purpose was the same problem one might encounter in trying to travel across it; it required intense effort and concentration to resist its constant, brilliant and infinite efforts to kill you.

The _Morning Angel_ , technologically superior as she undoubtedly was, almost seemed to infuriate the mindless energies of the nebula with her implacable serenity, which was perhaps just a trifle less serene than usual. Obi-Wan was in the pilot's seat, as usual, literally up to his elbows in his communion with his ship, and he was smiling softly. Now, he thought, he knew why ships were always called "she". The _Angel_ was annoyed.

If asked, he could not have said exactly how he knew that, but the fact remained that he did know it. As a tendril of random electrical charge flickered around her, the ship flinched slightly, requiring her pilot to propel a small pulse of Force-enhanced reassurance into the open bond between him and the vessel's consciousness. Which, of course, was another misnomer in a life, he thought with a smile, suddenly replete with them. The ship's mind wasn't really conscious, but it was aware, and he hadn't a clue how he knew that either.

Ciara Barosse sat in the co-pilot's seat, looking particularly sour as her Master studied technical read-outs at his place at the Navigator's station.

"I fail to understand," said the young woman, not bothering to try to conceal her resentment, "why she won't talk to me."

Obi-Wan bit down on an impulse to chuckle; Ciara was definitely not in a chuckling mood. "She would," he replied instead, "if it were necessary. It's not, and she knows it."

"But how would she know . . ."

"Ciara," he interrupted, becoming a little annoyed himself, "I don't know. She just knows; that's all."

"You know what I think?"

"No," he answered ruefully, "but I'm sure you're going to tell me."

She scrunched her nose and peered at him through slitted eyes. "I think you told her to ignore me. I think you can't stand the idea that she might respond to me as much as to you."

He grinned at her. "One of these days, your face is going to get stuck like that."

Her frown deepened. "You are such a - a - a _boy_!" she snapped.

"Hey!" he replied, hearing something in her voice that belied her flagrant irritation. "What's really bothering you?"

"Stop that," she retorted, deliberately turning her face away from him. "Stop trying to get into my head." 

Obi-Wan paused for a second, trying unsuccessfully to analyze her expression, before removing one hand from the tiny force field that afforded him intimate mental communication with the ship. He then reached out and placed his palm against her forearm - and waited.

She jerked forward abruptly, allowing a mass of dark curls to fall across her face. Patiently, Obi-Wan gently leaned over and swept the silky fall of hair behind her ear, and thus, was finally able to see the bright wash of tears in her eyes. "You've found a new home, Obi," she whispered, not quite successful in trying to keep a note of desolation out of her tone.

He sat back and regarded her silently for a moment before answering. "Is that what you think?"

As he waited for her answer, he became aware of another pair of dark perceptive eyes trained on him. Ramal Dyprio remained silent, for the moment.

"These people," said Ciara softly, "they love you. They've opened their hearts to you. Force, Obi, the Ghost gave you this ship. When I mentioned something about its owner being fortunate, he said it belongs to you. I never met anyone who was just gifted with a starship before - not to mention a ship that's as unique and perfect as this one. And they all look at you like you're - I don't know - the prodigal son or something."

"Chi," he replied gently, "it's not like the ship was doing him much good, sitting in a hanger with no one to pilot it. And, besides, isn't this what I was supposed to do? Would you rather I just wandered around the galaxy like some kind of lost soul, looking for a place to lick my wounds and feel sorry for myself because I'm no longer Jedi?"

"Don't you say that," she blazed at him. "Don't you dare say that!"

But he held his hand up to stop her. "Ciara, I'm not the one who said it. I didn't abandon the order; it abandoned me."

And, suddenly, the two-way conversation expanded to include a third party, who stepped forward and placed firm, strong hands on Obi-Wan's shoulders. "You've done well, Young Kenobi," said Master Ramal, and something in the baritone rumble of his voice sparked a seed of memory within Obi-Wan, a painful seed. "But you must remember who you are - always."

Obi-Wan turned and looked up into the face of the swarthy Master. "And who is that, Master Ramal? Somehow, I rather think that's what I'm doing here, trying to find who I am. I was Jedi; now I'm not. I need to see if there's anything left once that's gone."

Dyprio knelt beside the pilot's chair and regarded the younger man solemnly. He seemed to measure his words before he spoke them, and all three of them knew that this was unusual for him; Dyprio was not a man given to introspection. "You still carry a lightsaber, Obi-Wan. Why is that?"

Obi-Wan smiled. "Because Master Yoda sent it back to me, and because I'm better with a 'saber than with a blaster."

But the Master was shaking his head. "I've seen you use a blaster, Obi-Wan. I grant you that your 'saber skills are outstanding, but you're no slouch with a blaster, and the increased range afforded with the blaster gives you a greater advantage. So I ask you again. Why do you still use the 'saber?"

Obi-Wan's smile was slightly weary. "Because it feels right. Because the 'saber is like an extension of my body."

"And why is that?"

Ciara and Obi-Wan actually exchanged grins and thoughts. _Masters - they never meet a question they don't like._

"I heard that," said Dyprio, a definite twinkle in his eyes, "but I'm still waiting for an answer."

Obi-Wan nodded. "Because the Force puts it in my hand, and guides me in how to use it."

Dyprio smiled. "And do you think the Force puts such a weapon in just any old hand?"

"No, but . . ."

The Master leaned forward abruptly, and put his hands on Obi-Wan's shoulders. "No, Obi-Wan. Just 'no'. The Force speaks to you, because you are Jedi. And if you never so much as speak the word again, you will _still_ be Jedi. Master Yoda knows that; that's why he sent your 'saber back to you. There are persons within the Order - padawans, knights - even Masters - who are not now and never will be half the Jedi you are, right this minute. You continue to use your lightsaber, because it's the weapon of a Jedi, while any other weapon, no matter how deadly or efficient, is not."

Dyprio rose and looked down into sea-change eyes that were shadowed now, bereft of the hope that should come so naturally to one so young and so gifted. "This you must believe, Obi-Wan, for it can only come from inside yourself. Whatever may come, whether your life ends today, or a hundred cycles from today, you will always be Jedi."

Obi-Wan met the Master's gaze squarely. "How is he?" he said softly.

"Facing some hard truths," replied Ramal.

"Xani?"

The Master nodded. "And his place in the master plan to destroy the Jedi. Your Master's late apprentice had a very long reach."

Obi-Wan's lungs seemed suddenly too small to allow him a deep breath. "Another betrayal," he said softly. "He must be . . . "

Abruptly, without warning, Obi-Wan literally saw stars, as Ciara slapped him - hard.

"What did you . . ."

"Because," she snapped, almost spitting in her anger, "you were about to sit there and agonize over what Qui-Gon is going through. Obi-Wan, for once - just once - let the man get what's coming to him, and worry about yourself. Don't you get it! He doesn't deserve your sympathy or your concern. Have you forgotten what he did to you?"

Obi-Wan merely looked at her. He didn't say anything; he didn't have to. Finally, he just sent a pulsed instruction to the _Angel_ , to hold station, rose and walked out of the cockpit.

"Oh, Force!" said the girl, eyes huge and blinded with tears. "Master, just kill me now, and put me out of my misery. Why did I say that? As if he could have forgotten."

Ramal smiled gently, and wrapped comforting arms around his padawan. "It's all right, Little One. He knows why you said it. He knows."

"Why does it have to be this way, Master?" she asked, burying her face against his tunic. "Why does he still care so much what happens to Qui-Gon?"

The swarthy Master's huge hands smoothed his padawan's riot of curls as he held her. "I don't know, Ciara. Except that it seems to me that a child's love is the hardest love to destroy. If we grow up loving someone, no matter how little they deserve it, we cling to that love. It's a part of who we are, and how we grew to be what we are. No matter how cruel life becomes, or how hard it strives to destroy it, that love is the last thing we cling to. And that's why he does it, Love. No matter how much it hurts him; no matter how devastated he was by what was done to him, he still loves his Master. And, I suspect, no matter what, he always will. Even if he's never able to forgive him."

She lifted her head and peered into Ramal's face. "You think he's angry with Master Jinn?"

There was a frightening bleakness in the Master's eyes. "Angry? No, Little One, that's not the right word. I think the Master should be very grateful that he doesn't have to confront his padawan right now. He's not angry; he's outraged, and he's hurt. And that can be a lethal combination."

"You don't think he'd . . ."

"I don't think any of us can guess what he might do, but I don't think I'd want to face it, whatever it is."

 

**************** *********************** *****************

"The little bastard," laughed the silver-haired general. "We should have known."

"Should have known what?" snapped N'vell Aji. "How could he have . . ."

"Remember what he is," said Ozvey, ignoring the glare indicating her annoyance at being interrupted. In the dark drift of space beyond the viewport behind his desk, a small task force of decoy ships, tricked out to look like transport freighters, instead of the deadly attack vessels they actually were, progressed sedately across a barren, featureless waste, a waste that - had their plans come to fruition - should have been thick with Resistance ships. "Keep in mind that he's not operating in a vacuum. He's got some fairly gifted partners in crime."

She stopped pacing (or - more correctly - flouncing) to stare at him. "You sound as if you admire him, and them."

He laughed again. "I admire courage, My Lady, and nerve. And the little tart has both. I mean, think about it. Can you actually imagine anyone else - a Jedi, in particular - having the nerve to attempt that little charade, not to mention actually pulling it off. If you hadn't known who he was up front, we might all have been completely taken in."

"Yes," she drawled, "well, you certainly appeared to be enjoying the 'tart's' performance, General."

But he was unperturbed by both her insolence and her insinuations. "I enjoy beauty, My Lady, in any form. Which doesn't mean that I wished to drag him into my bed. That pleasure I'll leave to you."

N'Vell's eyes narrowed, and rimed over with frost. "That pleasure, General," she retorted, "will most certainly be mine, but there are far greater issues at stake here. Since he obviously saw through our little set-up, what do we do now?"

Maleonaka Sirvik cleared his throat abruptly. He had been silent throughout the bitter exchange, reflecting with some amusement that alpha-to-alpha catling fights were invariably entertaining, but tended, in the end, to accomplish little. As happened so often in life, he thought, it was the inconsequential little beta who was capable of clearer vision and dispassionate logic.

"If he saw through your hoax," he suggested, "wouldn't he have looked elsewhere for the information he required?"

"Such as?" N'Vell's irritation made her voice shrill, and unpleasant.

Sirvik smiled and spread his hands. "Surely, there was only one other source of information for him to approach."

"The Hutt," said the General.

But the Telosian princess was skeptical. "The Hutts may be the biggest gangsters in the galaxy, and capable of any kind of double cross, but they're driven entirely by greed. How would they profit from selling us out? I should think the opposite would be true."

Sirvik was thoughtful. "Suppose it wasn't voluntary."

N'Vell huffed her impatience. "Oh, come on, Mali. Not even a Jedi Master can mind trick a Hutt; you know that."

Ozvey was staring out into the void, noticing little of the spangled beauty before him. "Subterfuge can take many forms, My Lady. Our little friend demonstrated that he's very gifted at misdirection. Perhaps he has other gifts as well."

N'Vell was, by this time, so high-strung she was almost vibrating, and Sirvik wondered if it was due to her growing concern about how much information young Kenobi might have acquired, or to the continuation of the deafening silence in her attempts to reach young Xani at the Jedi Temple. "Contact the Hutt," she snapped. "And find out."

 

************** ****************** *******************

Nanza, like all of its kind, was imperturbable and inscrutable, but General Ozvey was nothing if not perceptive. He was almost certain there was a spark of disdain - maybe even amusement - in the Hutt's huge murky eyes.

"I would advise, Friend Hutt," said N'Vell Aji icily, no longer bothering to pretend civility, "that you consider your answers very carefully. There is still a great deal of money at stake in our commercial relationship. Are you absolutely certain there was no way for the boy to obtain the actual transport schedule and routing co-ordinates?"

In its plush office on the resort moon, as a bevy of humanoid dancers paraded for its inspection to allow it to select new performers for the enjoyment of its powerful cousin, Jabba, at its fortress on the desert world of Tatooine, Nanza hesitated, considering its options. In its mind, it saw again the holo-tape of that oh-so-tasty little tidbit opening the magnetic vault in its private office, with the ease of a child peeling a flimma-fruit; it couldn't remember when it had enjoyed a performance so thoroughly, and knew a moment of regret that the young scoundrel had not been available for purchase. What an asset he would have been! The Hutt couldn't even begin to count the ways in which he could have been used.

And there was also, perhaps, some slight nuance of obligation; the tiny sensor unit the Jedi child had left behind, as he made his hasty exit, had already enabled the Hutt to reap a considerable windfall of ill-gotten gains, and to do so with complete discretion, revealing nothing of its nefarious activities, for the time being. However, the coffers of the mining consortium were virtually bottomless, and the longer this dreadful woman and her associates could be kept occupied elsewhere, the greater the chance to maximize the opportunity for ever-increasing profits.

Remarkably, the Hutt felt a single moment of regret for that exquisite little strumpet, before allowing himself a very small sigh, and tossing the boy - figuratively, of course - to the hungry malia.

"I suppose," mused the massive lizard, "he might have had a peek at the encrypted data, if he were clever enough to get into my private vault."

Brath Ozvey's smile was thin and cold. "And have you bothered to check to see if any datachips are missing?"

"The datachips," drawled the Hutt, "have all been destroyed, per standard procedure. Once the encryption logarithms were transferred into our databanks, the chips became useless."

Ozvey somehow managed not to scowl into the viewscreen. "And I don't suppose anyone bothered to count them, as they were destroyed?"

The smiles of a Hutt - by virtue of the configuration of its mouth - were virtually impossible to read, but the General was fairly certain Nanza was thoroughly amused as it said, "Now why would anyone do that?"

Without even a nod, Ozvey reached out and closed the comm channel, and resisted an urge to smash the console with his fists.

"He got the codes," he snapped. "We'd be stupid to assume otherwise. He must have realized that the ones in the folders were decoys."

"He couldn't have known," she insisted, eyes sparking with anger.

"You forget, my dear," said Sirvik, busy adjusting his cravat, "he's Jedi. I sometimes think that your hatred of the knighthood blinds you to their abilities."

N'Vell spun to confront her long-time associate, and even Sirvik was inclined to squirm under the blaze of her glare. "I forget nothing," she hissed. "But this one is only a padawan learner. He shouldn't be so gifted."

Sirvik's voice was not entirely steady when he responded, but he did somehow find the courage within himself to stand up to her rage. "But everything we've learned about him says that he is that gifted. And . . . ."

"And?" she prodded. "Go on, Mali. Spit it out."

"Whether you like it or not, N'Vell, he's been padawan to Qui-Gon Jinn for almost eight years. I know you despise the man, but even you can't dispute his abilities. He did, after all, manage to ki . . ."

"Don't say it," she interrupted, voice surprisingly soft, but very cold. "We have known each other for many years, Mali, and I am able to forgive much, on that basis. But this you will not say. Understood?"

Dr. Sirvik raised his strange, multi-faceted eyes to regard the woman who stood before him, absolutely motionless now, and, for the first time in many, many years, he tasted the bitter dregs of fear in the back of his throat. Draped in black spangles she was, which set off the satiny texture of her ivory skin to perfection and emphasized both the scarlet slash of her lips and the intense azure of her eyes. But most of all, somehow, it accentuated the icy stillness within her, the fierce fury that ruled her every moment and guided her every movement.

"I understand perfectly, my dear. And I was only pointing out . . ."

"He's right," said Ozvey, not perturbed at all by the woman's rage. "You've underestimated him, and so have I. A mistake I will not repeat."

For a moment, it was obvious that N'Vell was torn between yielding to his expertise, and demanding satisfaction for his insult. But, in the end, her pragmatic nature, which could be devastatingly practical when required, won out, and she turned to look out into the black spectacle beyond the viewport.

"Where will he go?" she asked.

"Looking at it from the perspective of the Drimulan Resistance, they realize that they must stop this shipment." Ozvey's smile was not pleasant. "And they're right. This shipment, once activated among the population, will make us invincible, and effectively end the resistance." His smile broadened. "Unless, of course, they're willing to kill and maim their own people in the process of freeing them."

N'Vell laughed softly. "So how will they seek to avoid this horrible fate?"

Ozvey turned to the star charts displayed on the datascreen, studying a plotted course strobing bright red against the dark background.

"Three possibilities," replied the General. "Which one they choose depends on how desperate they are, and how courageous."

"Where?" she asked.

"Here," he said, gesturing toward a remote area where ships inbound from Kessel were forced to stop to regroup and reset hyperspace co-ordinates. "Or here," an area bisected by a huge asteroid belt, and swarming with space debris, small planetoids and moons, known as a hive of smuggling activity. "Or here," he said finally, tapping the area known as the Catling Eye Nebula, awash with lethal energy and littered with the twisted hulks of mangled space craft.

N'Vell didn't bother looking at the chart; instead, she concentrated on Ozvey's face. "Which?" she said darkly. "You've studied the Ghost; where will he go?"

The General nodded. "Indeed I have, and a month ago I'd have been completely comfortable projecting his plan of attack. But that was before."

"Before what?"

Ozvey narrowed his eyes, staring at the chart glistening before him. "Before the arrival of your little friend. Jedi capabilities change things, My Lady. And, if they don't, then the Ghost is not using his advantages."

"So what do you think?"

"I think," he said finally, "that we can assume that their plan is to destroy the shipment. They haven't the means or the capacity to seize it, and why would they, anyway? They have no use for it. Their fleet is too small to mount a direct challenge against us, or even against the Hutts' armed escorts, so they have to resort to subterfuge, which means they must lie in wait. So, in spite of the fact that it's easily the most dangerous of the three sites, and it's certainly closer to Drimula than they would like, the Nebula is where they'll be. Your little friend's natural abilities should be enough to allow them to deal with the increased risks."

"Are you sure?" N'Vell's eyes were cold. "You don't want to be wrong in this, General. Trust me. If other aspects of our strategy have been disarmed, then this little operation becomes even more vital." Something dark and malformed moved in the depths of her eyes, and Ozvey shifted slightly away from her.

"What 'other aspects'?" he asked grimly.

"Drimula," she answered, altogether too smug for his liking, "is hardly the center of the universe, General. It's a cultural backwater, a tawdry little way station on the road to greatness, one that just happens to be in position to play a necessary role in the ongoing drama. So you might want to take me seriously when I tell you that, if you're guessing, your guess better be right."

He shrugged. "It's where I'd be. It offers the best opportunity for ambush, and it provides a multitude of means for destroying the transport."

"Can you reach it in time?" 

He noted the pronoun of choice, but elected not to mention it, for now. "In time to keep them from springing their trap? Probably not. But just in time, perhaps, to spring one of our own."

N'Vell heard something in his voice, something that hinted at secrets kept and treasured. "What are you thinking?" she demanded.

But his smile was non-committal as he leaned forward and stared into her eyes, reminding himself that she was both as beautiful - and as deadly - as an Iegan winged serpent. "That it's always good to keep in mind that encrypted data - while generally accurate - may not be entirely complete."

Now it was her turn to laugh softly. "And exactly what little tidbit of information did you omit from the encrypted disk?"

"Let's just say," he answered, "that the transport ship isn't quite the big, fat, helpless, waddling victim it appears."

 

******************* ******************** ****************

He shivered abruptly, and noted that his knees were almost numb. A tiny smile touched his lips, as he recognized that it wasn't really cold in this little alcove; the _Angel_ seemed to monitor him constantly, and to adjust environmental controls according to his needs. The fact that he tended to be hot-natured pretty much assured that everyone else aboard would probably complain of being too cold.

He wasn't really cold; or rather, he was only cold in the memory that seemed determined to break through his concentration and wreck his attempts to meditate. 

It was the scene through the tiny viewport that was doing him in, a pulsing spray of radiance arching across a field of ice crystals, the brilliance breaking and separating into shards of brutal violet and acid green, piercing gold and bloody scarlet, and all of it incredibly, unspeakably beautiful.

He had witnessed such a display only once before, and he did not know now - nor would he ever know - whether or not it had been a genuine aurora spectacle in the frozen heavens above the ice planet, Hoth, or the product of a fevered, desperate mind, gripped tight in the overwhelming intensity of hallucination.

_He had been barely fifteen years old, and he had almost died there, exposed and frozen, desperately ill and brutally beaten, held for a political ransom that he had known, from the outset, would never be paid. The Jedi did not yield to terrorist threats; it was a given, as old and traditional as the order itself. He remembered looking up into the flashes of brilliance above him, his body no more responsive, no more living, than a great, bloodless chunk of stone, which had been something of a blessing, given the punishment which had already been inflicted on him; nothing, however, could numb the pain deep within him, the pain of knowing the agony his death would bring to his Master, and the other pain - the pain of organs so badly bruised and lacerated that they were but moments away from losing all ability to function. He would die then; he had known that._

_He had refused to allow himself to cry then; he had cried some earlier, only to have his tears freeze solid in his eyes._

_Something within him had offered some small measure of comfort; it would be better this way. The damage already inflicted on him would probably prove to be beyond the capacity of even the greatest healers to repair; he had no desire to live as a shadow of what he had once been, a burden and an object of pity._

_He had forced himself to lift his face one last time, to lose himself, if he could, in the panorama spread out above him._

_He had lifted his face, and been engulfed in the embrace of huge arms which had made quick work of the chains that had bound him, and had lifted him as easily as if he had been a mere infant._

_The Jedi had found him; his Master had found him, and Obi-Wan had, for the next forty-five days, lived a fairy tale existence, a dream such as he had never dared to imagine - and never would again._

_Qui-Gon Jinn had never been a demonstrative Master. Though never cold or austere, he was, nevertheless, very reserved and reticent, more given to companionable silence than to excessive verbiage. Yet, Obi-Wan had somehow always known what lay beneath that reserve, had always been able to discern the warmth in the silence, the quiet pride conveyed in a tiny smile or in a spare nod of an elegant head._

_But for forty-five days, many of which were spent in the healers' wing as the Jedi specialists fought, first, to save the padawan's life and then, to restore him to complete physical health, Qui-Gon Jinn had become an impassioned speaker, an advocate for the boy who could not speak for himself._

_By the time the first two days were over, the grizzled Master and the Chief Healer, Mirilent Soljan, were already threatening to kill each other. In truth, the only reason that neither actually tried was that they shared the same motivation. Master Jinn would accept no less than a full recovery for his padawan, and Master Healer Mirilent would provide it - or die trying._

Obi-Wan shifted slightly in his twilit alcove, and smiled, touched suddenly by the warmth of memory.

_On the fourth day of his confinement, he had finally regained consciousness sufficiently to be aware of his surroundings, and had found himself cradled in the arms of his Master, who was sleeping, somehow, half on the bed, and half on a tiny, overburdened little chair. When the padawan had stirred, Qui-Gon was instantly awake, gazing down into sleepy, blue-green eyes. The first stirring of panic rose in those bright orbs when Obi-Wan had opened his mouth, and found himself incapable of forming a word._

_"It's all right, Little One," his Master had soothed him, stroking his back gently. "Between the damage to your lungs - and the bacta - it's going to take a while for you to be able to speak. But you will speak again; I promise you. I've already told Mira that every girl in the Temple will be out for her blood is she doesn't restore that beautiful accent."_

_At that moment, Obi-Wan had discovered that he could, at least, still moan, bringing a smile and, astonishingly, a wash of tears to his Master's eyes. With a sense of awe, the padawan had reached out and wiped tell-tale wetness from Qui-Gon's face._

_"I almost lost you," the Master had said, staring down into a visage still bruised and pinched from the ordeal. "By the Force, Obi-Wan, I thought I would lose my mind when I couldn't find you. I never knew . . . "_

_Obi-Wan had felt his breath seize up in his throat as he waited for his Master to complete his thought. Qui-Gon had leaned forward and taken his padawan's face in his big, calloused hands, using his thumbs to trace the boy's cheekbones. "I never knew, Obi-Wan, how empty my life would be without you. I never knew. And that's why you have to be so very careful now. You're still very ill. Between the severe cold and what those monsters did to you, you still have a long way to go. Understand?"_

_Eyes huge and filled with a sense of wonder, Obi-Wan had contented himself with a nod._

_The Master had smiled, then climbed up onto the biobed and settled himself with his apprentice wrapped easily in his arms. "But understand this as well, my young apprentice. The journey before you may be long, but you will not walk a single step of it alone."_

_He had then gathered the boy close and dropped a soft kiss on his temple._

_Obi-Wan, of necessity, had said nothing, but the Master had held him and cradled him and, sometime later, wiped away the copious tears that the padawan somehow could not control. It had been the first time in his life that the boy had ever felt himself to be exclusively cherished and loved._

It would continue and grow for several months, until the day Master Tahl died. 

It would never completely return again, except for scattered moments and the magic of memory.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and sought to discard all the emotion and uncertainty that flowed around and through him. He knew that what lay ahead of him would require a pure, flawless communication with the Force. This was not the way to achieve it.

The faint rustle of a footstep imposed itself between him and the conduit to communication that he was seeking to open, and he sighed.

"Jeb," he said softly, "we're on board my ship. I don't think you have to watch so closely."

The huge Corellian didn't respond, but he didn't leave either.

"Jeb?" The young Jedi turned to regard his gargantuan shadow and surprised an expression of what looked suspiciously like longing on that ordinarily placid face.

"Sorry, Obi," mumbled Jebbitz, and began to back away.

"Wait." Obi-Wan wasn't sure what prompted him to stretch out with a pallid tendril of Force energy, to trace the equivalent of a feathery fingertip across the Corellian's mind, but something did. What he sensed there made him smile. "You wanted to ask me something?"

The gentle giant paused, but appeared uncertain about opening his mouth.

"It's OK," soothed the Jedi. "You can ask me anything you like." With a sardonic grin, he moved to the side of the alcove. "If you're going to watch me anyway, you might as well do it comfortably. Sit down, and ask your question."

As the Corellian debated whether or not he wanted to crouch beside the young Jedi, Obi-Wan took a moment to study Jeb's face and form, and felt a tiny flutter of guilt as he realized that he had never actually thought of the big Corellian as anything other than a convenience provided by Captain Fer'mia. No one would ever describe Jebbitz as handsome or prepossessing; except for his size, he was imminently forgettable. Yet there was much more beneath this huge surface than any casual observer would ever realize, and Obi-Wan was marginally ashamed that he had allowed himself to fall into that category. Jedi, by their very nature, were never simply 'casual observers', and he should have known better.

When Jeb finally settled himself, albeit gingerly, at the young Jedi's side, Obi-Wan was careful to focus completely on his companion.

The question, when the Corellian decided to utter it, caught the Jedi by surprise, although, he later realized, it shouldn't have.

"What's it like, Obi?"

"What's what like?" Obi-Wan found that although Jeb's mind was easily penetrated, it was somewhat disorganized and not amenable to quick scans.

Jebbitz raised smoke-dark eyes to stare into a face that he believed to be the most perfect he had ever seen, a face that, he knew now, he would give his life to protect, a face that he would touch and caress in his dreams for as long as he lived, but only there. For nothing or no one, he vowed, including himself, would ever take anything from this perfect young being that he was unwilling to give.

"What do you hear?" The rough voice was full of a sense of wonder. "Sometimes, when you're flying the _Angel_ or when you're thinking about what to do, or even sometimes when you're just staring out into space, it's like someone is speaking to you. It's like you're hearing the most beautiful voice anyone could possibly imagine, and that it's singing just for you."

Obi-Wan's smile was exquisitely gentle. "That's a very good description, Jeb. As good as any I've ever heard. The Force is - it . . ." He paused, looking for the right words. "It's like carrying your guardian angel with you, everywhere you go. And though it doesn't actually speak to you - not with an audible voice anyway - you can hear it deep inside. You hear what it feels and what it knows."

"And you hear that it loves you," said the Corellian, a gentle glow lighting his eyes.

The young Jedi leaned forward and laid his palm on Jeb's shoulder. "Just as it loves you, Jeb. The Force lives in all of us. It's like this great symphony, and every living thing is a part of its harmony, even if only some of us can hear it."

"It must be wonderful," said Jeb, finally, lost in wonder. "To be held like that, and guided and sung to."

Obi-Wan was silent for a moment, deep in thought, but when he raised his eyes once more to regard the big Corellian, there was a curious tenderness in his face. "This morning," he said softly, "I watched you checking out the _Angel_ 's energy conduits. You looked them all over, very carefully, and you rearranged some of the fibers, easing out some knots of resistance, and stroking in some anti-friction additive."

"Yeah. So?"

"So why did you do that? There was no gauge to tell you that it needed to be done; no alarm blaring; no signal flashing. So how did you know?"

Jeb shrugged. "I just knew. That's all."

Obi-Wan grinned and slapped the big Corellian on the back. "Exactly!"

Jebbitz surged to his feet, if any great lumbering beast such as he could ever be said to 'surge' to anything, dragging Obi-Wan up with him. "You mean it might talk to me too?" he cried, delight glowing in his eyes.

"It talks to us all," Obi-Wan assured him, gingerly flexing an arm to be sure the attached shoulder had not been dislocated. "We just hear it in different ways."

Abruptly, Jebbitz reached out and traced Obi-Wan's jawline with a thick, trembling forefinger. "But it sings to you," he insisted.

The Jedi almost shook his head, but he stopped and, finally, just nodded. For, in truth, the Force _did_ sing to him sometimes, had always sung to him at unexpected moments, and it felt, suddenly, disloyal and even ungrateful, to deny it. "Yes, it sings to me. It's always sung to me, and I hope it always will."

"Why wouldn't it?" asked the Corellian, hearing the slight hitch in the Jedi's voice.

Obi-Wan didn't answer immediately, turning instead to gaze out once more into the spectacle of the nebula. "Where I was," he said finally, "where I once belonged, the Force was everywhere. It not only sang to me; it walked with me, and cradled me as I slept, and ran its fingers through my hair. It was a living presence."

"When you were Jedi," said Jebbitz, very softly.

Obi-Wan almost shook himself as he consciously straightened his spine. "Yes. When I was Jedi."

For a while, the two simply stood and lost themselves in the writhing brilliance beyond the viewscreen, and Obi-Wan eventually turned to go, flashing his companion a quick smile. "Obi," said the Corellian, his tone tentative and uncertain.

"Yes?"

Jebbitz turned to face his young charge, and it was immediately obvious that he was not particularly comfortable with what he felt compelled to say, but he would say it any way.

"I been all over this galaxy, Obi. I've seen things that would curl your hair, and other things that would make a grown man cry like a little baby. Seen all kinds of people - good and bad; really good, and really, really bad. Seen men that would skin their own mothers for a credit; seen the spice freaks and the flesh freaks and the pleasure freaks; seen little kids bought and sold like cattle. Seen places where life was cheaper than a bottle of watered wine. All in all, I've seen a lot of evil, Obi, enough to make me wonder, sometimes, if there was any good left, anywhere."

Obi-Wan felt the waves of desolation emanating from Jeb's persona, and, without conscious thought, projected a gentle wave of soothing Force energy toward the big Corellian, just as the shaggy head lifted to allow dark eyes to focus on the young Jedi. "But I don't wonder any more," said Jeb firmly.

Obi-Wan staggered, almost overwhelmed by the brightness of the gentle giant's regard. "No," he said with a sigh, conscious of a huge headache rising within him, "that's not right, Jeb. You don't find goodness in other people; you find it in yourself. I'm not . . . Don't put your faith in me. I can't . . ."

"I saw you," said Jeb, completely ignoring the Jedi's murmur. "Twice."

"Saw me what?"

"Something . . . touched you. It was like the Light just wrapped itself around you."

Obi-Wan shook his head and grinned wearily. "No, Jeb. You were just tired, and over-stimulated."

Jeb leaned forward and placed his huge hands, very carefully, on Obi-Wan's shoulders. "I know what I saw, Obi, but if you don't want to believe it, that's OK."

But Obi-Wan was determined. "That sort of thing," he insisted, "only happens to . . . Well, it won't happen to me any more. I'm not . . ."

Jeb smiled down at the young man who had sufficiently forgotten himself to allow the big Corellian's huge paws to remain on his shoulders and even to drop slightly to caress the muscles of his back. "Jedi," said Jeb, closing his eyes very briefly to savor the moment, "is just a word."

With that, the big bodyguard stepped back and moved away from his young charge, his eyes dark with regret, yet somehow warm with the knowledge that he could do what he had been trusted to do; he could protect that lovely young soul, even if the one he had to defend against most vigilantly was himself. 

Obi-Wan once more knelt before the viewport, but his meditation, it seemed, would still have to wait a bit longer.

"Nicely done," said a cultured, deep-core accented voice from an adjacent alcove.

Obi-Wan managed, barely, not to sigh. "Hello, Quebal. I didn't hear you come in."

The Drimulan smiled. "Even non-Jedi can move quietly, when it suits them."

Obi-Wan frowned as he stared at Fer'mia's second in command; there was a glint in Quebal's sable brown eyes that the Jedi couldn't quite identify. "And it suited you to creep up on this conversation?"

Quebal settled himself on a storage bench at the entrance to Obi-Wan's chosen alcove and regarded the young Jedi with no visible symptoms of unease. "I was curious."

"About?"

Quebal gestured toward the corridor down which Jebbitz had disappeared. "Your bodyguard isn't nearly the simpleton he appears to be. I wondered if you'd notice."

"And?"

Quebal grinned. "You did."

As the Drimulan appeared to lose himself in the spectacle beyond the viewport, Obi-Wan took advantage of the opportunity to study his profile. Of all the command crew of the _Lady Ghost_ , it was Quebal who had proven to be the most reserved and the most difficult to know.

"Do you really think we'll just walk through this, without a hitch?" asked the Drimulan, gesturing toward the turbulent wasteland outside the ship.

"No, but maybe we can hit them hard before they figure out just where we are."

Quebal grinned. "You think Ozvay is that gullible? That he's just going to assume that we gave up when we don't show for his little party? Do you really believe anybody is that stupid? Hell, he probably saw through your little charade from word one, and he's just sitting out there now, waiting for us to show ourselves. All of this is just a little too easy - don't you think?"

"You don't trust me," said Obi-Wan finally, allowing himself a small smile.

Quebal turned and looked straight into the Jedi's eyes. "Wrong. I trust you completely, to be what you are."

The Jedi sighed. "Well, that's certainly cryptic enough. Care to explain it?"

"You sure you want to hear it?"

"Absolutely."

Quebal hesitated only briefly. "All right. Tell me, Jedi," - there was no attempt to disguise the sardonic inflection of the word - "where will your loyalties lie when saving Drimula and its people can't be accomplished by adhering to your precious code of honor? When nobility simply isn't enough?"

"I don't know what . . . ."

"Have you killed, Young Kenobi?"

"Yes."

"And how did it feel?"

Obi-Wan felt the tremors rise within him, the same tremors that always assailed him, once the killing was done. "It was painful."

"Always?"

"Always."

"Even when your victim deserved killing?"

"Even then."

Quebal jerked forward until his face was only inches from that of the young Jedi. "Do you know what kind of scum we're dealing with here? What they've done to my people?"

Obi-Wan nodded, not bothering to conceal the sympathy that moved through him. He didn't know who Quebal had lost, only that he had lost someone.

"My wife," said the Drimulan, "was six months pregnant when the soldiers came to our village, and it had been a difficult pregnancy. When they chained the villagers together, for a forced march back to the mines, my son - my twelve-year-old son - begged for mercy. Begged for her freedom from the chains."

Quebal paused, his body suddenly in the grip of tremors. Obi-Wan reached out and infused the Drimulan with a soothing wave of Force energy, but the tremors only subsided slightly; they didn't stop. "What happened?" asked the Jedi.

"They chained him in her place, and threw her into a rolling cage where the mercenaries used her, for their pleasure. Until she died. My son was forced to walk behind that cage, to watch what they did to his mother."

Obi-Wan drew a deep shaky breath, and felt the horror and indescribable agony of the man who crouched before him. "I'm sorry," he breathed. "Oh, Force, I'm so sorry."

"Sorry enough?" asked the Drimulan. "If confronted with those monsters, what will you do, Young Jedi? Will you mourn if you're forced to kill such filth? War isn't pretty, Kid, and there's very little nobility or honor in it. I frankly don't give a damn if our methods meet with your approval, or if we play by your pretty little rules. The Jedi are renowned for being passionless - serene - but serenity won't serve here. Here, passion is required. We don't need your tranquility; we need your fire, and I'm frankly not sure you have any to give. The blood of my wife, of my son - of all the wives and sons and mothers and brothers and daughters of Drimula - cry out for vengeance, young Kenobi. A motive completely alien to the Jedi philosophy. Do you admit that?"

"Yes. I do."

"So, I ask you again. Where will your loyalties lie, in the heat of battle? Will you adhere to the code that you have given your life to, or will you stand with us, prepared to do whatever you must in order to win a war that we absolutely cannot lose? Are you Jedi, or are you a warrior?"

"I have pledged my . . . "

Quebal held up an impatient hand. "Don't play word games with me, Boy. Let me put this as simply as I can. If the necessity arises, will you break the Jedi code?"

Obi-Wan looked up into that intense face and saw that there could be no evasion of the truth. This man and those he called compatriots deserved no less than total candor. "I don't know," he answered finally. "I believe I'll do whatever is required to defend your people, to preserve your homeland. But I know nothing of vengeance or retribution. It's never been my way."

Quebal peered deep into ocean-hued eyes, searching for a key to understanding what he read there. Finally, he nodded. "The key," he said at last, "is within you, Obi-Wan. If you're truly prepared to accept your severance from the Jedi, you'll release your hold on the Code that binds you to them. If not, you won't, and I don't think you know, any more than I do, which will happen. Nor do I believe you'll have any real choice in the matter. What lies within you will decide for you.

"So I'll ask of you only one promise. If you find that you cannot relinquish the obligation you feel to the knighthood, be honest enough to say so, and then do nothing to impede us from the completion of our duties."

Obi-Wan nodded. "I won't fail you, Quebal. Even if I find that I can't fight your war for you, I'll find other ways."

Quebal smiled. "You're a good kid, Obi. The kind of kid I would have wished for my son to grow up to be, but, unfortunately, the kind of honor you practice is a luxury people like us cannot afford. Under other circumstances, I think we'd have been friends. But now, now I allow myself no friends; no personal connections. I have no more tolerance for loss."

The Drimulan clasped Obi-Wan's shoulder firmly, then rose and moved away.

His final words seemed to reverberate in Obi-Wan's mind, spinning, twisting, echoing, eliciting images and faces. Or rather, one face. 

_I have no more tolerance for loss._

Such a simple sentence - straightforward, pertinent, bald, honest.

_I have no more tolerance for loss._

Obi-Wan looked out into the void, and, for once, saw nothing of its splendor. Instead, he saw a weary face and midnight blue eyes that seemed to have no more capacity for weaping.

_I have no more tolerance for loss._

"Is that it, Master? Have you lost so much that you no longer dare care about anything or anyone?"

_I have no more tolerance for loss._

A single tear formed at the corner of his eye and traced its way down his cheek. If this was the truth, the final truth - Qui-Gon's truth - then it was, of necessity, also Obi-Wan's truth. If the Master could no longer endure the possibility of caring about anything for fear of its loss, then the very thing which he might care about was already gone, to return no more.

There were no more tears as he turned away from the viewport. He, too, he realized, must rearrange his thoughts and his purposes; he too must learn to have no more tolerance for loss.

********************* ******************* *****************

 

He remembered sleep, he thought. Remembered that, at one time, it had served as a refuge against pain and remembrance, had cradled him and nurtured him and allowed him to burrow into nothingness and hide himself away from bone-deep anguish that resisted every attempt to release it into the Force.

He could only wish that the ability to access that soul-healing slumber would return to him now, now that he seemed to be locked into a waking dream that never relinquished its hold on his mind.

It was very late, or very early; he wasn't quite sure which. And it mattered little anyway. For the day yet to dawn would be identical to the one now relegated to memory. Empty. Echoing with silence. Needy.

The Jedi Master fought off a momentary restiveness as that particular word leapt into his consciousness.

Needy? He didn't think he had ever applied such a concept to himself before.

He might have been lonely before, and restless and solemn and hurting, but needy?

Yet, he admitted with a small sigh, it was an appropriate term.

It seemed that Nature - and Qui-Gon Jinn - both abhorred a vacuum, and that was what he had become; what was left of all he had once been.

The irony of his need did not escape him; rather it mocked the silence in his soul.

What he needed had not been ripped from him; had not been taken from him against his will; had not been torn from his grasp as he fought to retain his hold on it; had not been placed beyond his reach by death or happenstance or the will of the Force.

No. What he needed, the one thing that would fill the vacuum within him, he had deliberately and willfully discarded, and now he knew the bitterness of futility. He had no hope.

The boy would not come back to him; he knew that. He knew it because he could see it and feel it and taste it in the thoughts that he had so ruthlessly disregarded when he had severed the bond between them. Was there, he wondered, any outrage greater than that of innocence falsely accused? Almost certainly not, and what he had done had gone far beyond the bounds of simple accusation. He had assumed the role of judge, jury and executioner in finding his padawan guilty of unspeakable acts, and he could hardly expect Obi-Wan to understand his motives when he couldn't understand them himself.

Obi-Wan was gone, and Qui-Gon observed that it was a shame that the boy would never know that his accuser, in the end, would pay the ultimate price for his error. But that was as it should be, for Qui-Gon knew, somehow, that even without the bond that had existed between them for so long, even in the face of such unbelievable betrayal, Obi-Wan would grieve for the loss of his Master if he learned of it.

This way, he would never learn of it.

From time to time, circumstances demanded that Jedi take on missions that had little or no hope of successful resolution; missions that required the sacrifice of life.

Such missions were, always, entirely voluntary; the discipline of the Order would not, could not, extend to the point of demanding the voluntary surrender of life, although Jedi were frequently lost in the course of performing their duties. Still, in most situations, there was at least a possibility of survival.

Not, however, in the missions that had come to be known as Absolute Solutions. To be assigned such a mission, a formal request had to be presented to the Jedi Council by the knight seeking the assignment, and even after being accepted on the very short list of those who so applied, there was an extended waiting period, allowing for careful reconsideration and re-evaluation of options.

Still, once all such issues had been successfully reviewed and resolved, the decision was, at last, left solely to the discretion of the Jedi himself. Not even the Council had the right, ultimately, to interfere or super-impose its will on one determined, finally, to surrender his essence to the Force.

Qui-Gon Jinn had already submitted his request; all that remained now was to wait, first for the waiting period to expire and, second, for the right mission to come along.

There was, however, no question that one would come along eventually. One always did. It was an established axiom; there would always be more suicide missions, than knights willing to attempt them.

He sat in the disreputable, over-sized old arm chair that was the only one he had ever owned that was actually big enough to seat him comfortably. He smiled gently. Obi-Wan had found it, spotted it at some ramshackle flea market on the Mid Rim world of Tano-Magra and dragged it back to Coruscant aboard one of the Senate's diplomatic courier ships, to the intense displeasure of the courier's captain. The reprimand his action had drawn had seemed to mean little to the padawan, in comparison to his satisfaction in his Master's ridiculously delighted response to the bulky gift.

The chair, somehow, held an echo of the boy who had brought it here, and who, over the years, had spent innumerable hours draped over its lumpy silhouette, posing in every conceivable configuration of limbs and torso. If the Master inhaled deeply, he could almost imagine that he caught the faintest trace of the scent of his padawan, a scent that combined traces of sunlight, and sea-kissed breezes, and summer afternoons, and groves of citrus.

He seemed to spend an awful lot of time in the chair of late, staring out into the glimmering maze that was Coruscant, fingers stroking the folds of a soft, somewhat ragged old robe, faded from its original rich cinnamon color to a soft, rusty tan. He had found the robe buried deep in Obi-Wan's closet; it had not been worn in years, as it was sized for a young boy. Qui-Gon remembered vividly the first time he had wrapped its softness around the waif-like body of the boy who would come to be the most important person in his life.

He remembered so many things - now. Things that he had allowed himself to forget. Things he had not remembered, until it was too late.

He looked around him slowly and found no solace in the familiarity of these quarters. Memory was not enough, not when the living essence from which the memories drew their power was irretrievably gone.

Time, he thought, had ground to a stop, as if there was nothing in his life for which it would resume its passage.

He waited only for the mission that would allow him, finally, to lay down the pain that was his constant companion.

He would not try to find the boy. Initially, he had raged against the Council's obstinacy. Of course, he must be allowed to reclaim his padawan. Obi-Wan, after all, was his padawan.

His anger and resentment against their calm resolve had been palpable.

Until he sat down and listened to himself. Until he realized that his tiny Master, as usual, was right.

He had not sought to bring Obi-Wan back to the Temple for Obi-Wan's sake. He had been intent only on saving himself, on finding his own salvation, on recapturing his own sense of belonging. Even his willingness to lay down his life in order to save his padawan, genuine as it was, was more about ending his own pain than preserving the boy.

It had taken many hours, on his knees, seeking the center of his existence, for truth to finally overwhelm the protective wall he had constructed around his conscience.

It had always been about Qui-Gon's needs, even in the very beginning.

The realization had very nearly destroyed him, only to be followed by a second, even more devastating moment of truth.

Obi-Wan had known, had always known, and had allowed himself to be used to foster the sense of completion in his Master's heart.

When the entire truth had been laid out before him finally, when he could no longer retreat into subterfuge and recalcitrant silence, he had forced himself to accept the bitterness of reality.

There would be no reprieve, not because the boy would never be able to forgive him, but because he would, in the final analysis, never be able to forgive himself. He had always known the depth and purity of the boy's devotion, and he had allowed himself to pervert that loyalty into a weapon for him to use and manipulate as he saw fit, with no thought for what it would ultimately do to that fine, young soul.

He would never again allow himself to sink so low.

It was still a horrible, grinding agony within him; he had abused his padawan. 

He would never do so again, which was a given, anyway, as the child would certainly never allow him to get close enough to have the opportunity. But even if Obi-Wan should be willing, Qui-Gon was not. Would not.

He had done enough damage, and he had done it - Force help him - to the child most vulnerable to his cruelty; the child who had trusted him beyond all comprehension.

The child - he felt the jagged edges of his epiphany grinding together within his consciousness - that he loved with his whole heart.

That, he acknowledged now, with a small, tremulous smile, had truly been the ultimate moment of truth. After all the tears, all the pains, all the denials, all the evasions; it had been this boy - this artless, sprightly, mischievous, lively, beautiful boy - who had finally won his heart and kept it, even after the bond between them was irrevocably severed.

He would be glad, finally, to leave this tiny space, this home created by the hands of a child. It sang of his padawan; it longed for his padawan. Without him, it was barren.

Like the Master's heart.

He closed his eyes and allowed that lovely, laughing face to form in his mind's eye, as he clasped a bit of stone in his huge fingers, and smoothed the threadbare drift of a faded cloak. 

"Somewhere," he whispered, basking in the warmth of that remembered smile, "there will be someone to love you, as you deserve to be loved. Someone to undo what I have done to you, my Padawan. I will not interfere further in your life; I will not take that from you, beloved child."

"Then you condemn him," said a strong, level voice, firm and unafraid.

The Jedi Master, for some reason, responded lethargically, without thought of threat or danger. "Don't you ever knock, Mira."

"Not if I can sneak up on a Jedi Master talking to himself."

"Congratulations," he replied, not bothering to open his eyes. "Are you here just to harass me, or is there a purpose for this visit?"

"We are here," she answered, moving to take a seat on the sofa, "to take you on a little fact-finding mission, Master Jedi."

Qui-Gon opened one eye, just slightly, and lifted his head to gaze up at the gangly, long-limbed youth that stood before him so defiantly.

"Padawan Garen," said the Master, "I'd hazard a guess that it's long past your curfew."

Mirilent leaned back on the scruffy old sofa and regarded the Jedi Master with eyes that saw a great deal too much, from Qui-Gon's perspective. "You don't have a clue, do you?"

"About?" His tone was perfectly level.

"Oh, I don't know," she said dryly. "The price of beroga tea, the latest gossip about Mace's new lady friend, the time of day. . ." Her eyes narrowed. "The danger your padawan might be in."

Qui-Gon rose slowly, and moved toward the kitchenette, and Garen's eyes almost bulged from his head. Mirilent, however, remained unperturbed, or, at least, she seemed so. "It's very late," said Qui-Gon, "but I can offer you some tea, if you like."

She sighed. "Qui-Gon, it's not late. It's entirely too damned early. Almost sunrise, if you bother to take a look at the eastern horizon."

"Is it?" he asked, honestly surprised. "I must have . . ."

"Lost track of time," she supplied, struggling to allow the healer side of her persona to dominate the decidedly less professional, less restrained individual side, the side that wanted to grab the tall Master and shake some sense into him.

"I'd say," she ventured, "you've lost track of a lot more than that."

He paused in the doorway, peering now out through the pre-dawn twilight. "Mirilent, you can let it rest. I won't hurt him again, no matter what. I've finally - long past time - realized how precious he is to me, and I won't allow him to be abused further. Isn't that what you want me to say?"

But it was Garen who stepped forward; Garen who answered. "Does that mean you're going to leave him out there? Alone?"

Qui-Gon turned to look down into the padawan's huge, shadowed eyes. "I think I've already done enough damage to him. Don't you?"

"Yes," snapped the apprentice. "Yes, yes, a thousand times, yes."

"So what do you . . ."

"Unfortunately," the boy continued, obviously fighting to overcome the lump in his throat, "what I think isn't what matters."

The Master turned back to his perusal of the failing night. "I don't understand what you want," he said slowly.

Mirilent sighed. "Don't you get it, you great lunkhead. It's not about what we want, and it shouldn't be about what you want. For once, just this once, it has to be about what Obi needs."

Qui-Gon leaned against the doorframe; it was as much of a concession of his devastation as he was prepared to allow, but it spoke volumes to the woman who had known him for most of their adult lives.

"What he doesn't want - or need," whispered the Master, without inflection, "is any part of me."

Garen nodded. "Basically, you're right, Master Jinn. Right now, he probably hates you, almost as much as he loves you."

Qui-Gon shook his head. "He doesn't . . ."

"Will you," said Garen, in a small voice that grew steadily louder, and louder again, "for once in your life just fucking listen?"

"Padawan, don't . . ."

"Qui-Gon," Mirilent interrupted firmly, "the boy's right. Shut - the - fuck - up!"

"This is a waste of time," said the Master abruptly, moving as if to push past the lanky apprentice.

"No!" shouted Garen, giving the towering Jedi a massive shove that propelled him back into the grimy arm chair. "You're going to hear me, if I have to sit on you to force you to listen."

"Careful, Apprentice," said the Master, in a tone that was almost a soft growl. "You will remember your place."

"My place?" Garen echoed, with a quick bark of laughter. "My place? I'm trying to talk to you about life and death, Obi's life and death, and you're reminding me to remember my place? Let me tell you something, Master Jinn. He's the best friend I ever had, and my place is right here trying to make you see the truth that you're still running away from."

"I'm running from nothing," replied Qui-Gon, no longer quite so dispassionate. "I've accepted that this was all my own fault, that . . ."

"And what are you going to do about it?" demanded the apprentice.

"I told you; I won't hurt him again."

"Ummm - so, what does that mean? The damage is done, and now, you just turn and walk away?"

"I'm setting him free."

Garen leaned forward until his face was mere inches away from that of the Master. "Nerf shit," he said clearly. "You're cutting him loose, so you don't have to face the consequences."

"He's better off without me," snapped Qui-Gon, out of patience now.

Garen straightened and waited until raging sapphire blue eyes rose to stare deep into his own. "He's going to die out there."

There was no single scintilla of doubt in his tone or in his words.

"No, he won't," replied the Master, not quite managing to cover the hitch in his breath.

Garen went to his knees at the feet of the Master. "Please listen to me, Master Jinn. Please. I know you've convinced yourself that he's all right, that everything will turn out for the best for him out there. I know better. He's going to die out there, if you don't do something about it."

"Why do you believe that, Padawan?"

At least, thought Garen, the Master had released enough of his anger that the apprentice was not, for the moment, in danger of being skewered.

"I know Obi-Wan, Master Jinn. Better than almost anyone else does. Better, even, than you, because I know how much he loves you. And I'm telling you right now, with no doubt in my mind, that if you leave him out there, if you don't bring him back here where he belongs, he's going to find a way to put an end to his loneliness and his bitterness. He's going to find a cause to die for, so losing his life will count for something. And then he's going to die."

"But why would he . . ."

"Because you took away what he had to live for," said Mirilent Soljan, no trace of sympathy in her voice. "By the gods, Qui-Gon, how can you have lived with him for so long, and known him so little?"

The Master was silent for a while, looking into Garen's face, trying to read the nuances still concealed beneath the surface of the boy's thoughts.

Finally, he allowed himself a small sigh. "He won't come back to me," he admitted. "I think the Council has arranged for someone else to try to reach him, to try to . . ."

"Waste of time," said Garen sternly. "He won't come back, not for them."

"You don't know that," said the Master.

Garen's smile was bitter and filled with anguish. "Oh, but I do. I do know that. Just as I know that I could chase him to the ends of the universe to try to bring him home, and he wouldn't come. Don't you understand, Master Jinn?"

"No, I . . ."

"Only you," breathed the Padawan. "Only you can draw him back here."

"Why would he even listen to me? He won't believe . . ."

Garen shook his head. "You misunderstand, Master Jinn. He won't come back to save himself, or to regain what he's lost. There's only one thing that will pull him back to the Temple, and you're the only one that can use it."

Confusion flared bright in the Master's cobalt eyes. "I don't . . . ."

Mirilent moved forward and stared directly into Qui-Gon's eyes. "You claim that you've finally discovered how much you love him. I say it's time for you to prove that. And I'm warning you now that it will be the hardest thing you have ever had to do. So let's look at it long and hard, Qui-Gon. How much do you love your padawan?"

For the first time in days, the Master felt the sting of tears in his eyes. "I don't know what you want me to say, Mira. If I could save him by cutting out my heart, I would."

Hesitantly, she reached forward and laid a gentle hand on his forearm. "I believe you would, but that's not the answer. You can offer him your heart, but can you ask him to offer his?"

"What? I don't . . ."

"There's only one way to bring him back, Qui-Gon. Only one thing that will draw him in. He wouldn't allow you to offer your life for him; he'll only allow you to ask him to offer his - for you."

"What do you mean?"

"Simple, Master," said Garen, not so cocky now, or so heartless. "He has to know that you need him, that you need him so much, that you can't live without him."

There was a breathless pause, as the Master raised stricken eyes to meet those of the tiny healer sitting before him. 

Mirilent nodded gently. "So how much do you love him, Qui-Gon? Enough to acknowledge - to him and to the galaxy - that it is his love that makes you complete, and that you can't go on living without him?"

Qui-Gon sat silent - stunned. There was no question that the emotion within him was strong enough, intense enough, to drive him to sacrifice himself for the greater good rather than continue to endure the aching need that filled him. He would willingly die to silence the weeping that gripped his soul.

Could he, instead, open up the depths of his suffering and allow someone else -anyone who so desired - to sift through the debris of his life and witness the depths of his failure? Could he allow them to inspect the emptiness that drove him, and taste the bitter need that wrapped him in loneliness?

Could he do all this - for anyone?

He closed his eyes, and again he saw that face - that smile.

When he looked up again, Mirilent thought - believed - hoped - she read a new resolve in his eyes.

"They won't tell me where he is," he said softly.

Mirilent and Garen exchanged small hopeful smiles. The journey ahead was yet long and fraught with peril, but the first step had been taken.

"They won't tell us either," she answered, rising and extending her hand to the Master. "But I think I can point you in the right direction."

Qui-Gon nodded, and rose, surprised to find that the headache that had plagued him so relentlessly had receded to the back of his mind.

"It was Oomy, by the way," said Mirilent, a small smile touching her lips.

"What was Oomy?" asked the Master, as he headed for the kitchenette to brew enough tea to clear the fog from his brain.

"It was Oomy that figured it out," replied the Healer. "She knew what it would take to lure him back here."

He paused and allowed himself a small quizzical smile. "Oomy? That child?"

"Ummmm - ten years old, going on thirty. If I may, I'd like to make a small suggestion for you?"

Qui-Gon waited, none too patiently.

"If I were you," crooned Mira, "I'd make sure not to disappoint her. I don't think she's the forgiving type."

The Master grinned suddenly, remembering the rage he had once read in stormy gray eyes. "Come on, Mira. Help me brew some tea so I can pick your brain, and keep this child from falling asleep on his feet."

Mirilent glanced back toward the massive chair from which the Master had risen, and smiled. "Too late," she said softly, and Qui-Gon turned to see the lanky form of the young padawan draped easily across the seat of the chair, head buried in the huge cushions.

The Master's breath caught suddenly in his throat, and Mirilent smiled gently.

"You do your job right, and you'll see him there again."

"This is not fair," said the Master gently. "What we're talking about doing to him is . . ."

"Manipulation," she said firmly. "You're right."

"So it's really not . . ."

"You have to decide which you prefer," she answered, her pragmatism, as always, in full command of her personality. "Manipulated - or dead?"

Qui-Gon opened his mouth quickly to retort, but closed it abruptly when he realized that there was nothing he could say to refute her point.

The first gleams of morning struck the spires of the Jedi Towers as they went to prepare the tea.

 

******************* *************** *******************

 

Even the _Angel_ sensed it, thought Obi-Wan, as the space around them seemed to expand abruptly, before flexing and contracting against the shields that cradled the lovely ship. 

The hour was at hand.

Five ships - four escort frigates and a large tanker, much larger than expected - were approaching at sub-light speeds. In this benighted area of space, they had little choice. Hyperspace jumps were risky, and limited in duration and scope, due to the constant energy discharges that wrought havoc with electronic and magnetic hyper settings.

The four escorts appeared to be standard convoy types, armed with laser cannons and particle beam generators, possibly including small ion cannons within their weapons arrays.

They were work horses, basically, sturdy enough, but lacking speed or grace. A pathetic match for the _Lady Ghost_ , or even for some of the frigate analogs among the ghost fleet.

Of course, compared to the _Angel_ \- which had now become _Obi's Angel_ , and would never again be called anything else - the entire convoy was little more than a parade of powerless wagons.

Nevertheless, Obi-Wan felt a tremor in the Force, and, through him, his ship felt it too.

"Something doesn't feel right," he observed, and saw Ramal Dyprio turn to look at him sharply.

"Such as?"

"The freighter," he replied, deciding abruptly. "It's too big. Given the cargo they're carrying, they could have used something less than half that size."

"Maybe it was the only one available," said Quebal, eyes straining to see through the turmoil still bursting around them.

"No," said Obi-Wan firmly. "There's something else."

"On my mark, people," came the voice from the comm station. Arain Fer'mia's voice projected nothing but calm assurance.

Obi-Wan stifled a grin, as he was pretty sure the fleet commander was scared witless.

"Careful, Rain," said the young Jedi, softly enough for only the Drimulan to hear him.

"Any reason you're saying that," came the response, equally soft, "or do you just get off on terrorizing your captain?"

"Nothing definitive. Just a feeling."

"Great," Fer'mia said with a tiny smile. "A Jedi, with a feeling. Why do I sense that this day is about to get a whole lot more interesting?"

Obi-Wan merely smiled, as Quebal leaned forward and spoke into the comm pick-up. "No choice, Rain. It's now, or never."

There was the sound of a faint sigh, and the captain spoke once more, very softly. "I always heard that old age is over-rated. Shall we, Gentlemen?"

"Hey!" said a voice from the _Lady'_ s bridge, as well as one from the _Angel._

"Sorry, Ladies," placated the Drimulan.

A few seconds ticked by, and Fer'mia's voice came again, loud and firm. "Mark!"

The ghost fleet moved out from its sheltered position within the collection of wreckage that spun on the edge of the great nebula, and darted forward. The escort ships would be handled as they turned to fight, but it was the transport which drew them.

They had almost reached firing range, swarming in kaleidoscopic patterns that the gunnery masters on the frigates could not hope to anticipate, when there was a sudden shriek of torn metal, followed by deadly silence.

A shimmering wave of some type of scintellant energy had streaked from the bow of the huge transport ship, impacted the entire ghost fleet, and jerked them to a precipitous halt, to hold them firmly in place.

Only the _Angel_ , it seemed, was exempt, as Obi-Wan lifted her up and over the top of the stalled vessels.

"What the hell?" cried Fer'mia over the comm. "We're frozen here."

"It's an interdiction field," said Obi-Wan suddenly, recognizing the energy patterns that the _Angel_ was flashing on his technical screens. "And a big one, by the look of it."

"One question," came the voice of Palani Vau-Bretayne. "What the fuck is an interdiction field?"

"Stop worrying about what it is," replied the Jedi, "and start worrying about how to get out of it."

"Obi," she yelled, "we're stuck tight."

"Right," he replied, "because you're trying to bulldoze your way out. Can't be done. But if you back off your power levels, you might be able to inch your way out. Especially if you all work together."

"They're not firing at us," said Fer'mia. "But then again, why should they?"

Obi-Wan studied his sensor read-outs. "I don't think there's anybody on the freighter, Rain. Looks automated. So get to work trying to break free of that field, and I'll take a crack at breaking that big bitch into rubble."

"Ummmm, Obi," said Ciara suddenly, "you might want to take a look at this."

A glance at the sensor panel indicated that her relatively tranquil tone of voice was a real achievement.

The four escort vessels had apparently decided that the _Angel_ was the only real threat among the ghost fleet, since she was the only one unaffected by the interdiction field. So all four were turning to head her way. 

None of the four would pose much of a threat toObi-Wan's state-of-the-art vessel. However, the dozen new arrivals which had just leapt out of hyperspace behind the escort might present something of a problem.

A brief spurt of static from the comm panel was strident and piercing, and the viewscreen swirled suddenly before clearing to reveal a view of the bridge of one of the incoming ships. Brath Ozvey was seated in the command chair, his lips curled in a smug smile.

"Greetings, Little Ben," he said softly. "Somehow I knew we would all meet again. Personally, I'm delighted, and my men can't wait to meet you."

"What a scum bag!" said Ciara, rolling her eyes.

The General laughed. "Well, I see the stakes have risen. All the better. So tell me, my young friend, are you ready to surrender, or do you prefer to play hard to get?"

Obi-Wan leaned forward, allowing his face to fill the screen on the Drimulan flagship. "I never play," he answered, then smiled before disengaging the comm unit.

The brace of ion blasts that tore through space just milli-seconds later found nothing waiting for them. The _Angel_ was gone.

"Neat trick," said Ramal Dyprio, nursing the micro-burst functions of the hyperdrive unit, "but he'll catch on sooner or later. We need a plan."

Obi-Wan's eyebrows lifted as he exchanged glances with Ciara. "I thought Masters were always the ones with the plans."

"Nag, nag, nag," retorted Dyprio, scanning the sensor read outs for the area around them. He paused for a moment, then raised his head - and smiled. "Come about, Obi-Wan, and everybody brace yourselves."

"See?" said Obi-Wan with a grin. "Masters always have a plan."

He scanned the read-outs before him and turned to stare at Ramal Dyprio, eyes wide.

"Hey," said the Master, with a rueful smile. "You didn't say it had to be a good plan."

"Maybe not," replied young Kenobi, bracing himself against the helm, "but I was at least hoping we might survive it."

****************** ******************* ****************  
tbc


	24. Things of Moment

Chapter 24: Things of Moment

_Twas much like any other flower to me,_  
 _Save that it was the first. I did not know_ ,  
 _Then, that it was the last. If I had known_ -  
 _But then, it does not matter. Strange how few,_  
 _After all's said and done, the things that are of moment._  
 _Few indeed! When I can make_  
 _Of ten small words a rope to hang the world!_  
 _'I had you and I have you now no more'_. 

\-----Edna St. Vincent Millay - _Interim_

 

"I wondered how long it would take you to come here," said the slender woman as she stood in the doorway, the delicate quality of her beauty rendered elfin - almost ethereal - by the pallid radiance shed by a flickering street lamp at the entrance to mission.

"How did you know I'd come at all?" asked the tall Jedi, waiting, hoping, to be invited to enter the tattered structure that housed the soup kitchen, but leery of presuming.

She swung the door wide as she allowed a small spark of anger to light her lovely, sightless eyes. "I figured you couldn't possibly be stupid enough not to come to your senses, sooner or later."

"Thank you," he replied, stepping inside. "I think."

"Don't thank me yet," she retorted, obviously not pleased with his presence. "I haven't given you what you want, and, frankly, I haven't decided if I will."

He paused in the dim hallway and turned to study her features. She was very lovely, but there was an element of fragility in the fine lines of her face and in the rigid posture of her carriage - fragility, with a trace of exhaustion, and, perhaps, something more. Something she was careful to conceal beneath a pragmatic façade. Disillusionment, maybe, threaded with a fine vein of skepticism. Camouflaged by a desperate desire to hold on to a faith that was rapidly being pulverized under a steady bombardment of unavoidable truths.

"It seems you've anticipated my question," he said softly. "Why would you refuse to answer?"

Her smile was bitter. "How can you ask me that? After what you did to him, why would I do anything to help you find him?"

He hesitated, and chose his words carefully. "Especially when it benefits your friends for him to remain where he is." There was no accusation in his tone, only certainty.

"What do you know of 'my friends', Master Jinn? Or of my world?" 

"Obviously not enough," he replied. "So why don't you tell me?"

She sighed and moved ahead of him into the open area of the dining hall. At this late hour, only a few volunteers remained, clearing away the last of the evening meal.

"We tried to tell you," she said in a weary monotone. "You, and all the Jedi. And the Senate. And the media. By the gods, if we'd thought it would help, we'd have put it up on billboards. But it wouldn't have. Nothing helped." She turned to face him, and he was stricken by the depth of suffering in eyes that, by virtue of their lack of function, surely should not have been so capable of expression. "Because you - and those like you - chose not to hear."

"I'm sorry," he replied gently. "For all you've endured, I'm genuinely sorry. And I know it's cold comfort to hear this, but the Jedi simply can't intervene in planetary disputes outside the boundaries of the Republic. We're spread too thin, and we serve at the discretion of . . . ."

"Genocide," she snapped, having heard enough platitudes. "That's what you condoned by refusing to hear. My planet . . ." Her breathing grew ragged and harsh. "My home will soon simply cease to exist. Drimula will be a lifeless, smoking ruin."

His failure to respond spoke more eloquently than any words might have.

"You think I'm exaggerating," she went on. "That these are the ravings of hysteria. Don't you?"

"No, of course not," he replied softly, "but surely it would be impossible to conceal such a massive tragedy!"

She shook her head, and tendrils of ebony curl slipped free of the braid that fell down her back. The Jedi Master had a sudden, almost irresistible urge to reach out and stroke the silky mass, but resisting the irresistible was second nature to Master Jinn, and he managed to restrain himself.

"You'd think that, wouldn't you? But you'd be wrong. It's actually very simple. A series of civil wars, resulting, finally, in anarchy; a mercenary army retained by a mining consortium that's taking millions of credits worth of ore out of the planet; a corrupt planetary governing body that's in the pocket of the consortium and interested only in sharing in the division of the spoils; and, finally, a campaign to convince the rest of the galaxy that a constant state of war exists on the planet, rendering it unsafe to approach and unfit for the benefits of membership in the Republic. Put it all together, and you have a perfectly insular society, which can't even raise a sufficiently convincing voice to beg for outside intervention."

"Are you saying that this is all a sham? That there is no civil war on Drimula?"

She rubbed a weary hand across her eyes. "No, Master Jedi. The war is quite real. It just isn't exactly what you'd call civil."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that, except for the collaborators who work hand in glove with the mining interests, Drimulans are not battling among themselves. They're battling against external forces, forces with sufficient money and power to destroy a world, and walk away immeasurably richer for their efforts."

Qui-Gon found it suddenly difficult to swallow, as he realized where this was leading. "You're talking about a resistance action," he said slowly. "That's where Obi-Wan has gone. To join the Drimulan resistance."

She nodded. "He needed to find a meaning for his existence, and we needed to find him."

"He's only one boy," cautioned the Jedi, trying, without much success, to silence the inner voice that insisted on reminding him that the life expectancy of resistance fighters, in any such war, could usually be measured in hours or days - weeks if one were extremely fortunate - rather than months or years.

Her laugh was slightly bitter. "You know, Master Jinn, it's amazing how little you know your padawan. He is, indeed, only one boy, but that boy packs a powerful punch. Young and untried as he may be, he has a gift that you don't seem to have noticed. People gravitate to him. There's a radiance inside him that draws them in. And right now, a gift like that means more to my people than it does to the Jedi. So I really can't think of a single reason why I should tell you how to find him."

"Because he'll die out there," he snapped, all trace of Jedi restraint gone with the eruption of desperation rising within him. "He'll die out there, and I can't let that happen."

She moved forward, hands extended, and he stood motionless, allowing her to explore his face with tentative fingers. It was a curiously intimate moment, with a curiously impersonal purpose. 

"Took you long enough," she said, dropping her hands and stepping back.

"What?"

"To understand what he means to you," she explained.

"Yes. Will you help me?"

"No." There was no equivocation in her tone.

"But . . ."

"I won't do anything to help you," she interrupted, her voice still cold. "But I will help him. And if pointing you in the right direction is the only way to do that, then so be it. But I want you to understand something first, Master Jinn. If this were only about saving you, I'd happily see you roasting in hell for the torment you put him through. How anybody could know that young man as intimately as you should know him, and assume that he could be guilty of the kind of actions you accused him of is just . . . it's beyond my comprehension. And I'm not even sure that helping you bring him back to the Jedi is the best thing for him. Because I'm not totally convinced that, if the opportunity arises, you might not just discard him again."

"I won't," he said simply. "I swear I won't."

"Famous last words," she replied, obviously still torn.

"But you will help me," he said finally.

"You're not trying to use any kind of Force compulsion on me, are you?"

He smiled. "I might, if I thought I could get away with it. But your mind is entirely too disciplined and too centered. I simply meant that I believe you will help me because no matter how much you distrust my assurances, you'd rather have him here, alive - even if it means he's back under my control - than have him dead out there somewhere."

She paused, obviously still hesitant, and her hands busied themselves toying with the thick braid of her hair. "This is bizarre," she said finally. "I feel like I ought to make you beg, and then beg some more. I feel like I need to believe in your sincerity, and I can't. Not quite."

"What else do you want me to say?" he asked, his eyes dark with suppressed anguish.

"I want you to tell me what he means to you," she said finally. "Whether you recognize his worth to us or not, I know that he could very well be the difference between saving my world . . . and losing it forever. So if you're going to ask me to let you take him away from that, I need to know why I'm doing it."

Qui-Gon abruptly began to pace, as if he could no longer stand to remain motionless, as if a force within him could only be contained with speed and movement. "You're asking a lot," he replied finally. "It's not easy for me to expose what I feel."

She took a deep breath as she started to turn away from him. "Then we have nothing more to discuss."

"Wait!" There was a sharp note of panic in that single word. "Please wait. Just - give me a moment."

Now she shrugged slightly. "It's your time to waste, and Obi-Wan's."

He was startled into a grudging grin. "You may have the face of an angel," he observed, "but you've the heart of a witch."

She nodded. "Granted, but if you want to have your way, you're going to have to placate the witch. The angel isn't an issue."

The Master forced himself to stand still and to face his inquisitor firmly. "He's my heart," he said finally. "He doesn't just fill my heart. He _is_ my heart. And I swear to you, as I will swear to him, that, until now, I never realized it. I never faced it. Because I was afraid to love someone that much, afraid to treasure him so much that losing him would be beyond my capacity to survive. But it happened anyway. No matter how much I tried to push him away; no matter how desperately I resisted the will of the Force that bound us together; no matter how determined I was that I would never need anyone so desperately again, he overwhelmed me. Against him, my defenses just disintegrated, like wet paper."

For a moment, his voice failed him, and Jarielle Fer'mia heard the rough texture of his breathing and knew that he was holding on to his composure by his fingernails.

"I can't live without him," he continued at last. "I can't live not knowing that he lives. And if that means using shameless manipulation of his emotions to bring him back here, then that's what I'll do."

She smiled. "I see you've already figured out what it will take to get him back. Very clever, Master. I didn't realize the Jedi were as prone to the use of dirty tricks as the rest of the galaxy."

"We're not," he answered grimly, "but I'll do whatever I must. He's better than all of us, and if I have to play dirty to save him, then that's what I'll do."

Jarielle allowed herself to settle to a bench near the doorway, and, for the first time, seemed to release some of the tension and annoyance that had been so obvious in her posture. "Congratulations, Master Jinn," she said with just a hint of warmth. "You finally made the right choice."

"What choice?" The confusion in his tone would have been palpable even to a sighted person. For Jarielle, it strobed like flashing neon.

"To show that the person seeking Obi-Wan is the human being, not just the Jedi Master."

"Will you help me?" The naked need in those four words was almost physically painful.

She sighed. "Tell me, Master Jinn, have you ever heard of an outlaw called the Galactic Ghost?"

"Of course," he answered, slightly impatient with her apparent non-sequiter. "Pirate. Smuggler. Criminal. Very shrewd, very daring, and wily enough to elude everybody that's ever tried to catch him. Everyone's heard of that scoundrel."

"Ummm, yes," she replied, her smile marginally smug. "Well, I suggest that you pray to whatever gods the Jedi acknowledge that 'that scoundrel' is every bit as shrewd and wily as he's reputed to be, because 'that scoundrel' is, as we speak, doing everything he can to keep your padawan alive and functioning. Oh - and, just so the record is straight - he also happens to be my big brother."

Qui-Gon tried, very hard, to think of an appropriate response that wouldn't sink him any deeper into the verbal morass he had already jumped into with both feet. In the end, however, he decided he had said quite enough.

Jarielle Fer'mia was grinning broadly as she made her way to the state-of-the-art communications equipment concealed in a nondescript closet in her office.

 

*************** ******************** *********************

 

"Can you ignite it without getting caught in the flash?" asked Ramal Dyprio, as he leaned forward to peer out through the paristeel canopy of the _Morning Angel._

Obi-Wan thought, briefly, but did not say, that it was more than a bit late to ask that particular question.

The answer was either, "Yes", or "It's been nice knowing you." There was no in-between.

"Watch your timing," said Dyprio, very softly, so softly that it was almost a subliminal message, and Obi-Wan, even in the extreme duress of the moment, took time to appreciate the Master's deft touch through the Force. The bond between Master Ramal and his padawan, he thought, must be quite lovely.

The padawan in question was locked in to the sensor panel hanging before her nose, reviewing incoming data on the small fleet lying in their path. Of the twelve Drimulan vessels which had just flared into existence out of the bizarre distortion of hyperspace, two were capitol ships, but only the flagship - a wedge-shaped Corellian cruiser, Banift class - was large enough to carry a full complement of fighter craft; probably at least two wings, each comprised of six squadrons, each squadron composed of six fighters. The smaller capitol ship - a blocky destroyer of Malastarian design - was probably a converted heavy escort vessel, carrying only a handful of explorer-type craft, not to be ignored, of course, but definitely lower on the threat assessment chart than its larger companion. 

The remainder of the fleet consisted of frigates, corvettes, and light cruisers, deadly enough in their own right, and armed to the teeth, but each vulnerable in its own way, and none completely overpowering in a confrontation with the Resistance ships, providing, of course, the ghost fleet could manage to free itself of the flypaper that held it so firmly.

"Tell me there's enough," Obi-Wan muttered, trusting Ciara to understand his meaning.

Which, of course, she did. "There's enough," she answered, "but it won't reach them all. But, oh, my, is it ever going to be spectacular! Obi, are you sure? I mean, can she . . . ."

He huffed a big sigh as he felt the _Angel_ 's tranquil certainty glowing through their link. "She's convinced that she can, and I think we have to trust her. Besides, what choice do we have? I mean, she knew she could shake off the interdiction field, when we hadn't a clue. So-o-o-o?"

She turned to stare at him with large, night-dark eyes. Then she smiled. "OK, my Jedi. Let's flash fry the fuc . . . umm, go get 'em, Obi."

"Better, Padawan," said Dyprio serenely. Obi-Wan spared a nano-second to marvel that the swarthy Master, standing now in the midst of complete chaos, still managed to look and sound as if he were deep in meditation on a Temple terrace. If he'd had time, it would undoubtedly have reminded him of another tall, stalwart, unflappable Jedi figure, but he didn't have time - exactly.

"Quebal," called the young Jedi, "is the weapons console functional?"

"Ready to rock," came the answer, and the Drimulan refused to allow any thread of uncertainty to color his tone. The panel beneath his hands seemed to be active, but the technology was totally alien, and he hadn't a clue what it was actually indicating. The soft additional response, "I think," was rendered sotto voce. 

"Then target the transport," said the _Ange_ 's young captain. "We can't take on the entire fleet by ourselves, so let's help shake them loose."

Just seconds later, a deadly barrage of flux torpedoes streaked from the ship's weapons bay. Since the bolts were composed entirely of cohesive energy, with no physical mass, they would be immune to the effect of the interdiction field.

"Six seconds, Obi," said Ciara.

Obi-Wan simply nodded and closed his eyes, sinking his consciousness more deeply into the bond that connected him to his ship.

As the sylph-like beauty streaked through the darkness toward the enemy fleet, a cloud of sulfurous yellow gas boiled in its path, billowing now around more than half of the Drimulan ships, ships which barreled through the writhing turbulence without a moment's hesitation.

It was, after all, only interstellar gas.

Only, it wasn't. At least, not entirely.

It contained a fairly thick concentration of something else, something that had probably been released into the pulsing turbulence of the nebula when one or more of the nearby tanker hulks had ruptured in the grip of nebular violence; something that had bonded with the wisps of interstellar gas, forming a compound identical in appearance, but much different in properties; something that would almost certainly not trigger alarms on the sensors of the Drimulan ships, since it mimicked the inert properties of harmless nebula compounds. Only a detection array with exquisitely fine-tuned Force sensibilities - like the one on the _Angel_ \- would detect it at all. 

It was called phueric plasma; colloquially, most people simply called it 'fury', a particularly appropriate name given its propensities. A gas with an explosive personality, combined with an acid residue strong enough to reduce bonded tuerillium to frozen vapor, a gas which also happened to be Force sensitive. Meaning that it could be ignited with a thought - from the right mind - if that mind were close enough.

Obi thought his mind would do just fine, if he could just time it so that the resultant flash of brilliant chaos would engulf the Drimulan fleet without singing the wings of his own lovely lady bird-of-prey.

He waited, and each second stretched into the realm of unimaginable time.

He could sense the thoughts of his friends and companions; Ciara's clear radiance, nervousness growing but still trusting in his skills; Master Ramal's harder brilliance, wary but confident, doubting nothing; Quebal's darker glow, uncertain, but resigned; and Jeb's steadfast gleam, understanding little of the nature of the gambit, but saturated nevertheless with pure faith.

He could even sense the distant warmth of Arain Fer'mia, and a tender stroke of benevolence that said, in a way that words never could, that the effort was enough in and of itself, even if it didn't work.

Obi-Wan opened his eyes, thinking that the effort was not enough. This had to work.

He waited - longer than everyone else, except of course the Jedi Master, thought he should.

Into the cloud the _Angel_ tore, viscous fibers of writhing energy reaching for her sleek silhouette, seeking to bind her, to restrain her mad progress, to devour her.

And he waited.

The canopy seemed almost to twist beneath the sulfurous fumes, as if it were recoiling from the touch of some dim, determined specter.

And he waited.

And the sleek ship plunged deeper into the sulfurous cloud, plumbing its depths, until it shuddered abruptly, spun on its horizontal axis, and leapt for the relative clarity of unclouded space, leaving in its wake a single tendril of Force energy, flickering toward the garish yellow vapor and finding it just as the ship soared out of the cloud, greedy particulate essence sheeting off the iridescence of her shields, as she clawed for altitude.

The ensuing moment of silence was deafening, and then . . .

The result was satisfying, thought Obi-Wan.

Ramal Dyprio chuckled softly. _Satisfying, Padawan? You've become a Master - of understatement._

It appeared that the nebula itself had gone up in furious flame, and taken a substantial portion of the Drimulan fleet with it.

A brief extension of the Force reassured Obi-Wan that most of the ships caught in the conflagration had not actually been destroyed, but six of them, including the smaller of the capitol ships, were completely disabled and, more importantly, no longer a factor in this particular battle. A seventh was venting an alarming stream of plasma exhaust, and would almost certainly explode within moments, if the crew could not contain the leak. Obi-Wan spared a moment to mourn the incipient loss of life, before moving on to other concerns.

"Ho-ly shit!" said the voice of Palani Vau-Bremayne. "I don't have a clue what you just did, Kid, but I like it. A lot."

"Obi," said Arain Fer'mia abruptly, "are you OK?"

The young Jedi smiled. "The _Angel_ 's not too happy about a couple of singed tail feathers, but, otherwise, we're fine. Have you managed to break loose?"

"Not completely, but we're getting closer to the edge of the field. It's easier when two ships work in tandem. And your torpedoes definitely weakened the power level, too."

Obi-Wan looked back and nodded once more to Zark Quebal, who immediately unleashed another flurry of bolts toward the huge freighter.

"Incoming, Obi," said Ciara, somewhat superfluously as the _Angel_ had already alerted him to the approach of the Drimulan flagship, flanked by a pair of corvettes bristling with weapons.

"You know, Ben," said a deep voice from the communications array, "you're beginning to annoy me. I think I've had quite enough of your fun and games for one day."

Obi-Wan's response was terse. "Games? You like games, General? I've got a new one for you."

The young Jedi was forced to acknowledge Ozvey's incredible ice-in-his-veins demeanor with a mental tip of the hat when the General actually chuckled. "And what game would that be, Sweetheart?"

"The game," Obi-Wan answered, "is called Catch-Me-If-You-Can - and don't call me Sweetheart."

 _Go, my lovely_. He didn't even complete the thought before the _Angel_ was nothing more than a bough of silver radiance across the face of the nebula.

"Obi-Wan, the escort ships are closing on the _Lady Ghost_ ," called Ciara.

"Quebal!" 

"On it, Obi, but the range is pretty extreme, and all this ballroom dancing isn't helping."

Obi-Wan sent his ship into a cork-screwing dive back toward the cluster of Resistance chips, eyes sweeping ahead. 

Ciara looked over at her friend, and smiled to find him chewing on his lower lip.

"OK," she said softly, "amaze me."

"What?" he replied, sparing only the briefest glance toward her; then pausing to look closer as he read the lovely warmth in her eyes.

"What are you thinking?"

He laughed softly. "Actually, I was just wondering how we always manage to get our asses in such a crack?"

She allowed her eyes to slide down over his linen-and-suede-clad body with a wry suggestive leer. "Your ass looks fine to me," she quipped, "and I rather like the look of my own, as well. So, what were you really thinking?"

He raised his head to study the tactical display that floated above his head.

"Master Ramal," he said suddenly, "am I right in thinking that field is not omni-directional?"

The swarthy Corellian looked up and considered the data in the read-out before responding. "Doesn't appear to be."

"And if they should attempt to cover themselves in every direction?"

"I'm not sure they could, but if so, it would cost them in distance and in strength. Diffusing the beam could only weaken and shorten it."

"So if we could work our way around behind them . . ."

Dyprio nodded, "But I think you're forgetting that we're not the only players on the field. Not to mention the fact that the transport appears to have some heavy duty shielding, possibly a by-product of the interdiction field generator."

Obi-Wan frowned and waved a hand, and another schematic materialized above the pilot's station.

Master and apprentice apparently saw it at the same exact moment.

"You don't think . . .. " ventured Obi-Wan.

"Do you suppose . . . ." asked Ramal Dyprio.

They exchanged glances and laughed, and, at the co-pilot's station, Ciara Barosse was amazed - and slightly impatient - to find a tear forming in her eye.

"Let's find out," suggested Obi-Wan, pushing with his mind and sending the ship into a big, looping spiral designed to culminate in intersecting a pocket of turbulence now flickering off the huge transport's starboard side.

Ramal Dyprio settled himself at the navigational scanner array, manually adjusting the _Angel_ 's preset parameters. Obi-Wan grinned as his ship informed him that her settings were perfect just as they were, thank you very much, and why on earth would they need to know that?

"Anything?" asked the younger Jedi, after a pause.

"Maybe," came the distracted answer. "Hold on a minute."

Multiple streams of deadly brilliance flashed by, barely missing the ship's underbelly. "Can't hold long," advised Obi-Wan. "My lady definitely does not like the heat."

"One more quick pass," said Dyprio, "and I think I'll have enough to make an educated guess."

Again, Obi-Wan laughed. "Is that the best we can do?"

Dyprio remained unperturbed, and unperturbable. "You know perfectly well, Young One, that that's a great deal more than we usually have."

There was a very slight recoil as a new burst of torpedoes leapt from the _Angel_ 's portside batteries, and raced away toward the escort ships now coming to bear on the _Lady Ghost_.

Moments later there was a huge burst of writhing incandescence at the bow of one of the advancing ships, and it heeled hard to port, striking a second ship a glancing, but deadly blow. Seconds later, both vessels disappeared in a brilliant cataclysm. 

"Nice shooting, Zark," said Obi-Wan, at the same moment that he channeled a reflected bolt of anguish into the Force.

"Incoming," said Ciara, slightly less sanguine this time as she watched multiple lines of deadly energy converging on the _Angel_ 's right flank.

"Shit!" said Obi, leaning forward and allowing the bottom to drop out beneath his lovely ship, and the vessel, responding instantly, fell away into darkness - but not quite fast enough. A splash of actinic brilliance flared against the starboard engine housing, and Obi-Wan reeled back from the console as blinding pain tore through his mind, severing his link to the ship.

What happened in the following moments, none of them would ever be able to explain - or even remember - exactly. As Obi-Wan dropped to the deck, Ciara was seized by an irresistible force and yanked forward, her hands drawn into the tiny energy field that provided the means for contact with the ship's mind. She was given no warning, and no option, but she was given instructions, albeit in a non-verbal manner.

 _He_ , according to the ship's mind, was in danger, which was completely unacceptable. The _Angel_ required the input of a Force-sensitive consciousness in order to perform in a manner affording the best possibility for his survival. Therefore, she, Ciara, would be allowed to serve as his substitute, but only until such time as he recovered sufficiently to take over again.

"Oh, shit," breathed the young woman, sinking into the role assigned to her, "even the Force-damned ship is in love with him."

"Ciara, are you . . . ."

"I'm fine," she answered, "aside from being pea-green with envy."

Ramal Dyprio knelt at Obi-Wan's side, and directed a probe of Force energy into the young man's thoughts. After a moment, the Master sat back on his heels, and simply watched the face of this youth who had been so badly used by the Jedi. The thoughts within him were chaotic and scrambled from his interaction with the ship at the moment of injury, but beneath that confusion lay a solid layer of deep pain, a hurt, thought Dyprio, that few people, Jedi or not, would even have been able to tolerate, much less sublimate sufficiently to allow the afflicted mind and heart to continue to function. A dark hurt that had been secreted beneath layers of Jedi composure and serenity, but never truly dealt with; a hurt that, if left to fester in the darkness, would eventually swell sufficiently to consume the mind that fought to contain it.

When Obi-Wan groaned, the Master reached out and wrapped him in strong, protective arms, and sent a gentle flow of healing warmth into the apprentice's battered consciousness.

An abrupt jog to port caused a brief unsteadiness in the protective shielding around the ship, and Ciara shook her head. "Sorry. This mental control thing takes some getting used to."

"Help me up," said Obi-Wan, groping blindly for a supporting arm.

Ramal Dyprio moved to lift him, but a huge, corded arm beat him to it. Jebbitz stood with all the aplomb and strength of one of the great Kolberra trees of Kashyyk, immovable, unflappable. "I got you, Obi," he said firmly, standing the young Jedi on his feet, but maintaining his hold to make sure his charge did not waver. "Are you all right?"

Obi-Wan reached up to massage throbbing temples and winced slightly in light that suddenly seemed entirely too bright. "I'm OK," he murmured finally, "but I think I've just discovered my _Angel_ 's only weakness."

"Which would be?" asked Quebal, when it became obvious that all of the Jedi understood Obi-Wan's meaning, without having to ask for further enlightenment.

"Her pilot," replied the young man absently, moving back to the helm console. Quebal and Jebbitz exchanged confused glances, but neither was anxious to reveal the depth of his uncertainty.

Jebbitz, for his part, was content simply to watch Obi-Wan, which pointedly allowed him not to watch the twisting maelstrom so garishly displayed through the canopy. Ciara, it appeared, was every bit as fond of astrophysical acrobatics as her young colleague. As she took the ship diving through a spinning patch of debris and small meteors, the big Corellian had to concentrate really hard not to notice.

Obi-Wan, in the meantime, was studying sensor data and a tactical plot on a peripheral viewscreen.

Ramal Dyprio leaned forward as a glowing red indicator flared to life on the screen. "Looks like we aren't the only ones to see it."

Obi-Wan nodded as he sank once more into the pilot's seat and plunged his hands into the energy field.

As abrupt as the severance between her and the _Angel'_ s mind was, Ciara reflected that she should probably be grateful the Sithly little witch hadn't simply tossed her out an airlock once her usefulness was at an end.

"Captain," said Obi-Wan, activating his comm panel with just a random thought, "are you free yet?"

"Partially," said Fer'mia. "Landing bay is now outside the field, so I'm launching fighters. Maybe we can keep the heat off you a bit, so you can help us get ready to take out the freighter."

"Got an explorer on the prowl too?"

The Ghost chuckled. "Noticed that, did you?"

"Who's in it?"

"Solitaire. Who else. He thinks there might be . . . options to explore."

"We think so too. Once you're free to maneuver, we'll mosey in for a closer look."

Fer'mia issued a string of orders to his first mate, before responding to the Jedi. "This interdiction field - can they just redirect it and snare us again?"

It was Ramal Dyprio who moved forward to respond. "Doubtful, Captain, although I must admit that our information about these fields is sketchy, at best. The only reason we can recognize them at all is because of some intelligence reports from the Corporate Sector - clandestine reports, I might add. We aren't even supposed to know about them, and we don't entirely understand how they work. Obviously, they disrupt the generation of the energy necessary for making the jump to hyperspace, but they also seem to create some kind of feedback loop, so that the energy a vessel expends in trying to escape the field, is reflected back against it, creating a stalemate. However, we do know that generating such a field requires a huge expenditure of power; it seems unlikely that deactivation/reactivation would be a simple process."

"So when we decreased our power output to minimal . . ."

"You dropped below the threshhold level set for monitoring the field," replied Obi-Wan. "In effect, they stopped watching."

"Twenty seconds to field perimeter," called Palani. "The _Marg Quest_ and the _Dumbrull_ are already free to maneuver."

"Perfect timing," called Ciara, "cause here come the bad guys."

Without conscious thought, Obi-Wan flipped the _Angel_ over and dove for obscurity within a drift of nebula phosphorescence, and multiple streaks of deadly energy converged in the space she had only just vacated.

"Apparently they're getting annoyed," reported Ciara. "The flagship is launching two squadrons of fighters."

"Just in time," said Fer'mia firmly, "to meet a few of our own. Obi, we'll give you some cover, but don't dawdle. We're substantially outgunned. We're faster and more maneuverable, but that big bitch flagship is packing some heavy-duty firepower. So make it snappy. OK?"

Obi-Wan turned quizzical eyes to Ramal Dyprio. "Is it just me," he asked with a soft grin, "Or does he sound like the hero of some space opera holopic?" 

The swarthy Jedi Master spared a mini-moment to turn and smile at the young pilot, heartened by the insouciance of the former padawan's manner.

"Four split-wing marauders closing on our six," reported Ciara calmly. "Coming in hot and steep."

Obi-Wan feigned a yawn, flexing one hand in the energy well, and the _Angel_ fell away into a barrel roll before streaking off into a phantasm of fluorescing radiance on the port bow.

"This is _Ghost Echo_ 1," said a disembodied voice from the comm station. "engaging your shadows, _Angel_. You are free and clear to navigate."

"Affirmative, One," replied Obi, "And thanks for the intervention. Hopefully, we'll be able to return the favor, shortly."

"You just take care of the big bitch," came the answer, almost as composed and tranquil as the Jedi. "We'll take care of these little sisters."

Obi-Wan smiled. "Remind me," he said softly to Dyprio, "to tell Fer'mia what an exceptional group of people he commands."

"I will, indeed," laughed the Master, "but I'd wager he already knows. Now, are you just going to sit around here, malingering?"

The grin on the young man's face would have given pause to many a brave man, and even served to send a tiny frisson of anticipation down the spine of an almost inscrutable Jedi Master.

The _Angel_ did not so much move as she erupted into motion, and plunged toward the cloudy effluvia off the starboard stern of the huge freighter.

"Whoa!" said Ciara, peering through the canopy, as a blinding flash obscured a sizeable portion of the nebula. "Nice shootin', _Ghost_ ," she crooned. "Two at a time; that's showing off, you know."

"Can't let you Jedi claim all the glory," replied Arain Fer'mia, slightly distracted (as if he had a whole battle to co-ordinate, or something) but still inordinately pleased with his people. "But a little alacrity would not be unappreciated. We do not have a bottomless arsenal."

"Nag, nag, nag," muttered Obi-Wan as he maneuvered his ship through wisps of coral and scarlet gasses, closing on his objective with infinite care.

"Is it stable?" asked Dyprio, eyes fixed on a proximity sensor.

"Relative to what?" asked Ciara drily. "Stable is a term that has very little meaning in this maelstrom."

Obi-Wan frowned and nudged the _Angel_ 's control interphase with a tendril of thought. "It will," he murmured softly, "be stable, relative to us - I hope."

The ship slowed gracefully, the external chaos whispering gently against the chromed hull. "Umbilical ready, Jeb?"

The big Correllian huffed a sigh. "Far as I can tell, Obi, which ain't very far."

The Jedi smiled. "It's ready. Just stand by the manual override, in case of trouble."

"Ugh, Obi, I'm not sure . . . ."

"Blue button," came the response, soft - almost distracted. Obi-Wan's eyes were closed, and he seemed to be moving very, very slowly, as if in a modified dream state.

When the fragmented mist around the ship shifted suddenly, and a huge, twisted sweep of dull blackened metal appeared directly ahead, everyone on the bridge of the _Angel_ \- except Obi-Wan - gasped a sudden, deep breath, even though they had all been expecting it and watching for it.

The hulk of the dead ship was tumbling slowly through the barrens of the Nebula, and the swirl around her was palpable - almost nauseating. But the carcass was still, from the perspective of the _Angel,_ because Obi-Wan had matched the path and trajectory of the floating hulk exactly; the nebula moved onward, in its eternal frenetic tumble, but the two ships remained stable, relative to each other.

The umbilical fired perfectly, and attached itself to the dark hull with a magnetic thump that shuddered through the flexible tubing stretching between the two vessels.

"Sensors?" asked Obi, disengaging from the helm.

"Suit up," replied Master Ramal, much to the young pilot's chagrin.

"It won't take long," argued Obi-Wan, a distinct suggestion of a whine in his tone. He really hated having to put on enviro-suits, and he hated wearing them even more. "Can't we just . . ."

"Obi-Wan," cautioned Dyprio, raising a hand to ward off the rest of the remark, "I remember how much you dislike the suits, but not even you can deal with temperatures approaching absolute zero. The air, such as it is (and there's very little of it, anyway) would freeze in your lungs. Now suit up . . . or stay here, and I'll go."

Obi-Wan sighed. "No way; you need to be here to adjust the tumble rate if I can get any kind of control over there." With a helpless shrug, he hurried into the aft cabin to retrieve the enviro-suit.

He had barely grabbed it from it's force-fielded alcove when it was pulled from his hands and he was manhandled into its capacious confines.

"Jeb," he protested, "I've been dressing myself since I was three."

"Ummm," said the big Corellian, "but not in one of these. A loose flap in this, and you're dead, Obi. So just be still, and let me get you suited up."

In the end, the young Jedi decided it was simpler to just allow his over-sized bodyguard to have his way, even if it did mean feeling a bit like a sausage being stuffed into a bun.

As he affixed a tool kit to his belt, along with a powerful light source, and attached his lightsaber to a thigh strap, he was at first surprised, and then dismayed to note that Jebbitz was also squashing himself into an enviro-suit, one that was not quite as large as it needed to be. It would serve the purpose, he thought, but he imagined that Jeb would be feeling cramped and confined in a very brief period of time, and he spared a moment to hope that his gentle giant was not claustrophobic. He didn't, however, bother to protest the Corellian's intention to accompany him, knowing, beyond all doubt, that his protest would be ignored.

Across the cabin, Zark Quebal was also donning one of the thick, awkward suits, its metallic glint hinting at the content of the fibers that composed it. Noting the padded holster that the Drimulan was strapping to his thigh, Obi-Wan was not surprised to find a similar device being attached to his own suit. Looking down, he met Jeb's eyes, and correctly interpreted the look in huge, dark eyes to understand that carrying the blaster was not optional; if he refused it, he would probably not be allowed to leave the ship, Force or no Force. The young Jedi, almost tasting the resolve in his large friend's demeanor, decided that he would exercise the better part of valor and save his belligerence for those who deserved it.

"Obi," called Master Dyprio, before the young Jedi donned his helmet, "there are two tanks of morophasial concentrate in the fuel well. Almost full."

Obi-Wan turned to stare at his fellow Jedi; then he grinned. "If I can tap it . . . ."

Dyprio nodded. "Propulsion. Then all you have to figure out is how to guide it."

The grin widened. "Haven't you heard, Master. The Force will set you free."

"Ummm, Obi," called Ciara, slightly alarmed without really understanding why, "I think that's 'the truth will set you free'."

"Whatever," he mumbled, as he allowed Jeb to attach his flexible hood and then affix the transparent faceplate to it. As always, when his direct connection to his surroundings was blocked, he felt a bare trace of alarm, before centering himself and swallowing his unease.

"Ciara?" he said softly, careful not to raise his voice.

"Gotcha," she answered, "loud and clear."

"Any change with the transport ship?"

"Nothing substantial. Shields are still intact. Captain Fer'mia's pretty much got his hands full with the Drimulan flagship, and the remainder are fighting running battles against the rest of the fleet. So far, the Resistance fighters are handling the marauders, but it looks like the flagship's getting ready to launch the next wave. So nobody's got much time to worry about the transport vessel."

"So it's up to us," he said softly.

"Looks that way, Kiddo, although . . ."

"Although?"

"Nothing," she said abruptly. "Just stray thoughts; don't pay any attention."

He paused in his progress toward the docking bay where he would enter the umbilical connecting the ships. "You know better than that," he said firmly. "What 'stray thoughts'?"

"You're doing it again," she snapped. "For once and for all, stay out of my mind, Kenobi."

"I will, when you tell me what you're . . . ."

"Obi-Wan," said Ramal Dyprio gently, "she's not thinking anything you don't already know. The Drimulans can't allow this shipment to get through. No matter what it takes to stop it. You do know that, don't you?"

Obi-Wan took a deep breath, and felt his nose twitch slightly at the stale quality of his air supply. "Yeah, I do know. 'S okay, Chi. That big bitch isn't going anywhere, except into the nearest event horizon."

When he stepped into the umbilical corridor, with his two companions at his heels, he was already retrieving his lightsaber from his belt. A laser cutter would be neater, but for cleaving metal fast, there was nothing as efficient as a saber blade at full power.

Behind the little group making its way through the transparent tube, Ciara resumed her place at the helm, accepted (although somewhat gracelessly) in Obi-Wan's absence, as Master Dyprio settled himself in a light meditative trance, seeking the complete serenity and total oneness with the Force he would need to be able to link the two ships successfully should the need arise.

Still, before closing his eyes, he reached over and stroked the silken length of his padawan's braid. "What?" he asked softly, deliberately avoiding the comm station microphone.

"He's scaring me," she replied in a soft, desperate whisper. "I know he has to help these people, that _we_ have to help these people. But, Master, I . . . ."

"What, Love?"

She raised her eyes to meet his, and he felt his heart tug at the misery he read within her. "I don't think he cares if he survives it," she replied, dead calm. "I think he'd rather be dead, than face what he's lost."

He stared into the blazing turbulence beyond the canopy, deep in thought.

Ciara, of course, noticed immediately that he didn't contradict what she'd said. He wouldn't, she knew, unless he disagreed with her. Her Master would never lie to her; if he couldn't offer her truth as comfort, he would remain silent, offering only his love and support.

The silence settled in like a living thing, wrapping cold fingers around her heart.

 

******************* *********************** *****************

The Council Chamber was alive with shifting shadows, as the traffic lines around the Great Temple pursued their intertwining intricacy, and continuously fractured the darkness into patterns of growing complexity. If one were to spend too much time gazing into that maelstrom, thought the Jedi Master, one might go mad, seeking patterns that simply refused to be found.

It was a difficult thing for sentient beings to accept; even more difficult for those gifted with Force sensitivity. But it was nevertheless true; sometimes there were no patterns. Sometimes life - and the Force - seemed to operate on a system of random chance.

He had been kneeling before one of the huge faceted windows for hours now, awaiting the pleasure of the Council members to whom he had submitted his petition.

He harbored no illusions; he thought his request would be refused. 

He hoped he was wrong, but, right or wrong, in the end, it would change nothing.

When the great double doors, carved millennia ago with rough pictographs that symbolized Jedi principles, swung inward, silently, he suppressed a sigh and turned to face his future.

The advancing Council members did not bother with lights; in such a chamber, illumination came from within, and, occasionally, from without, but with no need for artificial enhancement.

Master Yoda advanced through wheeling radiance, looking older today than yesterday. At his side, Master Windu walked slowly, eyes hooded and hands pushed deep into the sleeves of his robe.

When the two came to a halt, mere feet away from the waiting Master, the silence around them seemed to deepen and swell, until the thought of speech began to feel like an outrage, a sacrilege in a sacred place.

"You are denying my petition," said Master Qui-Gon Jinn. It was not a question.

Yoda tapped his gimmer stick impatiently, and the tall Master settled to his knees easily, understanding the gesture perfectly.

"Understand, we must," said the ancient Council member. "Why do you seek this?"

"He must not be allowed to die out there, my Master. Surely, you know this. You have always known that he was meant to be more than . . . more than any of us could foresee."

Yoda's eyes glistened eerily in the semi-darkness as he began to speak and to pace. "Always a child of light was Obi-Wan. Always."

Qui-Gon sighed. "Yes, Master, I . . ."

The gimmer stick thumped - hard. "Interrupt me, you will not. Important, this is. Understand, you must."

The kneeling Master simply nodded, beginning to grow alarmed at the troll's tone of voice.

"Never a trace of darkness was there in Obi-Wan. Even in youth, when he was plagued with anger and lacked control, it was no more than the exuberance of an untrained mind. A child of light."

Yoda turned abruptly and faced his former student, and Qui-Gon might almost have believed that he saw anger glimmer in those crystalline eyes. "Until now."

"What?" Qui-Gon, unable to contain himself, surged to his feet. "What do you . . ."

"Know you where darkness begins, Qui-Gon?" Yoda demanded.

Qui-Gon shook his head, knowing instinctively that the ancient Master had no interest in hearing a rote recitation of doctrine.

"Darkness begins - in a child of light - with self-doubt. In Obi-Wan, seeds planted by you, Qui-Gon, fell on fertile ground. Always his greatest weakness, this has been. Always believing himself not good enough."

"But, Master," Qui-Gon said softly, almost whispering, "he was the best of us all. The whole Temple knew it. The Force - it almost glows around him. It sings in his presence. We all know this."

"Ummm," mused the ancient Jedi, "all but one. The one who needed to know it most."

"How could he . . ."

"Qui-Gon," said Mace Windu, very gently, "don't you understand? No one else could tell him, for no one else mattered to him. It had to come . . . from you. And it didn't."

The towering Master turned once more to gaze out into the flickering darkness. "Are you telling me that he's lost to us? That he's . . . No. I won't believe that. Obi-Wan would never turn. I know that."

"You know it," said Windu, not meaning to be cruel, but hardly able to avoid it. "But does he?"

"Within him, now," said Yoda, "darkness has found a toehold. If it grows, he will turn, or he will die. And the Jedi . . ." The Master paused. "The cost to the Jedi will be beyond imagining."

"I must go for him," said Qui-Gon finally. "With the blessing of the Council . . . or without. I must go for him."

"To ease your conscience, Master Qui-Gon?" asked Windu, more harshly than he intended.

"No," replied Qui-Gon softly. He stood for a moment in silence, gathering his thoughts. "I don't know if I can make you understand, but from the time he first came to me, it's as if I never looked at the treasure I held in my hands. I never saw him for what he was. And, yes, Masters, I doubted him. Force help me, I doubted him, because I doubted myself. How could he be perfect? He was my padawan, and I was so far from perfect. It made no sense that he could be the lovely, perfect child that he seemed to be. So I doubted him, and now you're telling me that my doubts have planted a seed of darkness within him. I can't leave him to that.

"I've finally realized one thing, My Masters. Just one thing, in all the supposed wisdom of my advancing years. He is the rarest, most precious of gifts, a sweet, innocent soul, filled with light and grace and all that is good and pure, all that the Jedi should be.

"I ask nothing else. When he is back among us, should he choose another Master, I will step aside, without protest. Should he choose to stay with me, I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for the reprieve. But either way, I must bring him back here."

"Give him up, would you?" pressed Yoda, regarding his padawan with great solemnity.

"If that is what he wants."

"And if it's not?"

"Then I will teach him, and I will never hurt him again."

"A sweeping promise," observed Master Windu. "You'll forgive me if I wonder if you can keep it."

Qui-Gon sighed. "You both know my dedication to the Living Force, and I must always be true to that commitment. But it has finally shown me the truth. Obi-Wan is like the Centennial lilium that blooms only once every hundred cycles. He is that rare, and he is ours. We can't simply let him go."

Finally, Yoda nodded. "One question more have I," said the little troll. "If denied permission to go you are, what will you do?"

Qui-Gon stood very tall. "I am prepared to resign my position in the knighthood, and to surrender my lightsaber."

There was a quick inhalation of breath from Master Windu; then there was silence.

Until Yoda once more tapped his gimmer stick, and Qui-Gon knelt obediently.

The tiny Master's face was very grave. "Go, you may, Master Qui-Gon. And the fate of the Jedi may well rest upon your shoulders. Fair, this is not, perhaps, but true, it is. Our need for his return is great, but greater still is his need to find himself. Hungry for him is the darkness that gathers around him. Such ugliness should never be allowed to threaten a child of Light."

Qui-Gon rose and turned to take his leave.

"Padawan," called Master Yoda sternly, and waited until the towering Master turned back to face him. "Understand this. Bring him back to us, you must, but if you can't . . . ."

Qui-Gon waited, his heart thumping loudly and trembling now, with a sense of dread. "If I can't?"

Yoda's sigh seemed to well from the bottom of his soul. "Obi-Wan must not be turned, Master Qui-Gon. As your former padawan, he is your responsibility. He must _not_ be turned. Do you understand?"

Qui-Gon fought down the surge of agony that swelled up within him. Finally he merely nodded. He could not bring himself to say it.

But it raged in his thoughts as he strode through the corridors of the darkened Temple. 

_Obi-Wan must not be turned. Obi-Wan must be returned to the Temple, or Obi-Wan must die!_

He had served the Jedi all his life, and he had been told what he must do. 

He found himself now deep in the grip of uncertainty, not sure he was capable of fulfilling the duty laid out for him. He was certain of only one thing: if Obi-Wan had to die, he would not join the Force alone.

As in all things during the last eight years, it was a journey they would undertake together. Without the presence of his padawan, he had no wish to endure.

It was not very Jedi, but it was entirely true.

******************* ****************** ******************  
tbc


	25. The Beat of Muffled Drums

Chapter 25: The Beat of Muffled Drums

_Art is long, and time is fleeting,_  
 _And our hearts, though stout and brave,_  
 _Still like muffled drums are beating_  
 _Funeral marches to the grave._

\-------Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - _A Psalm of Life_

Arain Fer'mia tossed a fire-suppression device to his first mate, sparing only a moment of attention to note that she appeared to be making inroads against the blaze that was attempting to eat its way through the hull of his ship. The heat was still intense and the crackling of the flames, still sharp and immediate, but it had retreated from the area around the tactical display and the sensor relays - and would continue to retreat, if it knew what was good for it, he thought, with a mental salute to the determination blazing in Palani's eyes.

"Starboard shields down to 37 percent, Cap'n," said the young ensign at the tactical station.

Fer'mia nodded. "Okay, Helmsman, protect our flank. We've got to buy our little Jedi friend some time, so we can't disengage. How's our power reserve level?"

"Steady, for now. And turbo-lasers 3, 5, and 6 are still nominal. 1,2, and 4 are recharging."

"Time to full power?"

"Two point seven-eight minutes, Sir."

The Ghost's pause was momentary only. "Lateral adjustment, Helm. Bring our portside batteries to bear. Target the shield generators and weapons targeting scanners."

"Aye, Sir. Pivoting now."

"Rain," called his first mate, and, hearing a note of desperation in her tone, he turned toward her. "Commander Plowargal is on the secure channel, Sir." The formality alone was enough to announce that something was dreadfully wrong. "Code Blue, Captain."  
For the first time since this exercise in chaos that some might call a battle had begun, Arain Fer'mia allowed himself to collapse into the command seat of his vessel. It was a running joke among his crew, and that of the ships under his command, that he thought better, fought better and probably screwed better - or so the joke went - on his feet than on his backside.

But this was no joke.

"No mistake?" he asked, knowing the inquiry was futile.

"No mistake. Hyperdrive reactor is critical, and they've got multiple plasma leaks on all decks."

"How many?"

"Sixteen in escape pods. The others . . ."

Fer'mia heaved a deep breath, and turned bleak eyes to the viewscreen. It would do no good. He knew it, but he had to try.

"Blier," he barked, nodding toward his communications officer, "time to get out of there."

At first, the only response was a quiet, breathy chuckle. "You know better, Rain. Remember our motto, old friend. Never . . .

"Waste an opportunity," said Fer'mia, completing the phrase. "I remember. But you're wasting a lot more than that. There are still five of you on board. That's more than I can . . . ."

"Maybe," came the interruption, "but it's still a lot less than the number on that cruiser. And it'll take all five of us to manhandle her into going where we want her to go."

"Blier . . . . ."

The main viewscreen crackled and sputtered to life, and a weary face, smeared with grease and soot, bruised and streaked with blood beneath a grubby bandage, stared into the eyes of the commander-in-chief of the ghost fleet. "Stop, Rain. Just stop. It's time."

"No, Blier, it's . . ."

"Everybody left on board," continued Commander Plowargal, as he eased himself down in his command seat, "is one of the walking wounded. Like me. We really are ghosts, Rain, the ones left behind after our families are gone. We've got nothing left to hold onto, except, maybe, a moment of payback. You going to deny us that?"

Fer'mia rose to his feet, his eyes never leaving the face of the man who had been his friend since they had learned to fly together more than twenty cycles earlier. "Are you sure?"

The Drimulan's dark green eyes were wells of pain. "I've never been surer of anything in my life. Pick up my crew, Rain, and let us go."

After a moment of rigid silence, the Ghost nodded, and arranged his hands in the palm over wrist formation used in the Drimulan gesture of homage. "Walk with the gods, my old friend," he said softly.

The figure on the viewscreen smiled, and faded into static.

"Rain," said Palani Vau-Bremayne after several breathless seconds, "we're in position."

The captain turned and nodded toward his weapons console, and, immediately, the _Lady Ghost_ shuddered under the recoil of the great turbolasers as they released brilliant bolts of deadly energy that seemed to tear at the very fabric of the nebula in their rush to impact the Drimulan flagship.

"Where are the escape pods from the _Spectralle_?" 

"Portside aft," replied the sensor tech. "Delta squadron is herding them in so the _Dumbrull_ can snag them with a tractor."

"Make sure they're covered, all the way in," Fer'mia said softly, eyes inexorably drawn now to the drama in progress beyond the huge paristeel canopy.

Commander Plowargal was wasting no time, as his ship, somewhat squat and less than graceful, but ever the workhorse of the fleet, wallowed and heaved in the throes of its final contribution to the well-being of the Resistance. For a moment, it appeared - deliberately, no doubt - that the converted freighter would destroy itself in its convulsive maneuvers, until it stopped abruptly, and lay perfectly still, for a heartbeat. When it resumed moving, the shuddering spasms were a thing of the past. Venting boiling plumes of plasma energy, the _Spectralle_ lunged forward, strong and straight and true. An arrow leaping from a bow of determination, of righteous compulsion, of poetic justice.

She never wavered or hesitated.

The Drimulan cruiser almost certainly failed to realize her intentions, until it was far too late.

Arain Fer'mia forced himself to watch without flinching, without turning away.

The collision, at first, seemed almost gentle; seemed to happen in extreme slow motion, as if the two great behemoths of plated metal sought only to caress each other, as the smaller Resistance vessel inserted itself into the larger cruiser, until half its length was embedded, almost like a lover sheathing itself within the body of its mate. Until the cataclysm erupted and engulfed the entire length of the _Spectralle_ , then roared back into the cruiser, consuming everything and everyone in its path, feeding on both the oxygen-rich atmosphere within the vessels and the massive fuel cells of the cruiser, which lay directly in the path of the Resistance vessel's prow.

Just a moment later, Fer'mia roused himself from his dark thoughts as he heard a strident voice, almost screaming on the open comm channels.

"Obi!" A female voice, touched with panic. "Obi-Wan Kenobi, you answer me. Right now! Shake it off; do you hear me? Shake it off!"

"What's happening?" demanded Fer'mia.

"I should ask you that," shouted the Jedi padawan. "We just got a blast through the Force that almost sent this ship into a tailspin, and I don't know what it did to Obi-Wan, because he won't answer me."

"Ciara." It was barely more than a whisper. "If you'll kindly stop screaming in my ear," - there was no mistaking the cultured elegance of that accent - "you'll hear me."

"I've got him, Cap," rumbled another voice, equally recognizable as that of the Corellian giant. "He scared the crap outa me, but I got 'im."

"Obi-Wan," said Fer'mia gently, "what happened?"

Everyone could hear the deep, shuddering breath. "Someone just died, Rain. Several someones, actually. Didn't they?"

The Ghost frowned. He should have foreseen this, but he was still learning what it meant to live side-by-side with a Jedi. "Yes, Obi. They did. I'm sorry, I should have . . ."

"Captain Fer'mia," interrupted Master Dyprio firmly, "we understand that you could not have anticipated this . . . reaction. But for future reference . . ."

"Of course. I'll be better prepared, should it happen again."

"Thank you, Captain," said Ciara. "It wouldn't have hit him so hard if these people had been strangers to him, or if he'd known it was going to happen."

"Understood," replied the Captain, his eyes returning to the viewscreen before him. "Unfortunately, we have no time for mourning now. Have you decided how you're going to proceed?"

Obi-Wan's voice was almost steady when he replied. "I just opened up our tin can here. Now let's see if we can find Solitaire and put our heads together to come up with a plan."

"With alacrity, Mr. Kenobi," said the Captain sharply, noting the swarm of fighters launching now from the Drimulan capital ship. "Time is not something we have in great abundance."

 

***************** ******************* ********************

 

The interior of the tumbling tanker was, surprisingly, something of a visual fairyland. Walls, ceilings, floors - none of which could be readily identified - were obscured beneath a bizarre crystalline growth that appeared to be almost organic in origin and tenacity. Stubbornly, the prismatic substance clung to every available surface and even stretched itself in long, looping tentacles to breach spacial barriers.

The searchlight in Obi-Wan's hand sparked veins of fire in the frozen mass and reflected it back in flashes of gold and violet and jade.

"Wow!" breathed the young Jedi. "I've never seen anything like this stuff before."

"Hold on," said Ciara, her voice distorted only slightly by the carrier signal. "I'm getting spectrographic analysis now. Some kind of trinary compound, silicone-based but . . . ."

"But?" prompted Obi-Wan when she failed to continue.

"Sorry," she answered, "the scanners don't recognize the other elements, except that they seem to exhibit attributes common to frozen gasses."

"It's not alive, is it?" asked Zark Quebal, his tone indicating that he would definitely prefer a negative response to his question.

There was the verbal equivalent of a shrug in the padawan's voice when she answered. "Not life as we know it, certainly, but . . . ."

"Obi-Wan," came the voice of Ramal Dyprio, "do you sense anything?"

There was a pause as the young Jedi stretched out with his feelings. "Nothing," he replied finally. "Although there is some Force residue, but it could just as well have come from the vessel's crew members. Whatever was alive here isn't any more."

"You people planning to sight-see all day?" asked a laconic voice, as a dark figure materialized in a hatchway which, from the perspective of the new arrivals, appeared to be in the ceiling.

"Find anything interesting, Soli?" asked Quebal.

"Oh, this and that," responded the Weapons Master.

"This and that - what?" Obi-Wan prompted.

The smile in Solitaire's voice was almost palpable. "What would you say to an intact fuel cell, still attached to an operational guidance circuit?"

Obi-Wan grinned, unable to resist. "I'd say, 'Hello, you big beautiful doll'."

Even Quebal had to chuckle. "And do we have any way of igniting this fuel?" he asked.

Obi-Wan simply lifted his lightsaber and depressed the activation switch. "Ignition," he said, his faceplate reflecting the azure brilliance, "will not be a problem."

"Obi," said Jebbitz, alarm obvious in his tone, "you can't just . . . ."

"Trust me," said the young man, overriding the Corellian's objection.

Jeb's sigh was pronounced. "I hate it when you say that."

"If you'll all join me on the bridge," called Solitaire, with a sweeping gesture, "we can begin."

But Obi-Wan was shaking his head. "I need to get to the fuel cell intermix chamber."

Solitaire appeared to pause for a minute, before nodding. "Next deck down, but, Obi?"

"Ummhmm?" The young Jedi was busy searching through the frozen crystalline substance looking for a buried hatchway, and was only half-listening to the Weapons Master.

Solitaire simply waited.

Obi-Wan realized abruptly that he was the object of intense scrutiny, along with a certain amount of displeasure.

"What?" he almost snapped.

The Weapons Master waited until the Jedi had turned to face him fully. "Jedi or not," said Solitaire, "this is officially an away mission, and you are under my command here. Do you understand that?"

"Actually," replied Obi-Wan, "I'm not entirely sure that's accurate. You're . ."

"Shall we contact Captain Fer'mia?" said Solitaire quickly. "He'll be happy to settle this."

"Look," said Obi-Wan, more than reasonably, he thought. "It doesn't really . ."

"Obi-Wan," said a firm voice over the comm channel.

The Jedi suppressed a sigh. "Yes, Rain?"

"Solitaire is correct. You are under his command. Understood?"

Obi-Wan bit back a scathing retort. He was Jedi; he wasn't accustomed to taking orders, except from . . . but that was a whole different story. 

"Understood?" The word was spoken with even more intensity.

"Aye, Captain." There was absolutely no way that Fer'mia, or anyone else, could miss the bitter sarcasm, or the resentment, expressed in such dulcet tones, but no one chose to comment on it.

Solitaire waited once more for the Jedi to look up at him. "You will not ignite anything," said the Weapons Master, "until we determine that it's safe for you to do so, and until I give you the signal. Understood?"

"Whatever," murmured Obi-Wan, attempting, without great success, to funnel swelling clouds of annoyance into the Force, while trying to remember that these people had absolutely no way of understanding what a Jedi was capable of doing - and knowing.

"I didn't quite catch that," said Solitaire, adamantly.

"Understood," the Jedi said loudly, before turning away and plunging the glowing blade of his saber into the heart of a crystal formation. 

Moments later, an open hatchway appeared at his feet, and he dropped through it without another word.

Jebbitz, of course, followed behind so closely that he almost landed on the object of his attention.

On board the _Lady Ghost_ , a comm chime sounded, requesting a secure channel, and Arain Fer'mia toggled a switch on his command panel to respond.

"Captain," said Master Ramal Dyprio, in a tone that almost smacked of diplomatic entreaty and startled Fer'mia into a grin. He would have bet big money that this was not a tactic ordinarily utilized by the big Corellian Jedi; blasters at twenty paces seemed much more his style.

"Go ahead, Master Jedi." He allowed only the tiniest trace of sarcasm to color his tone, but he knew beyond all doubt that Dyprio heard and recognized it.

"You mustn't hamstring him, Captain." The Jedi wasted no time in getting to the heart of the matter. "Whether or not he's still associated with the Order, he's still Jedi, to the core of his being. And he's much more capable of knowing what he can - or can't - accomplish, than you are. He has skills that will amaze even you, and if you tie his hands by forcing him to ask permission to do that which he is so uniquely qualified to do, you risk both him and the mission you send him on."

Fer'mia knew the truth of what the Jedi was saying, but he couldn't quite silence a voice of doubt that was screaming somewhere in his sub-conscious mind.

"But he's damaged, Master Dyprio," he replied coldly. "Isn't he?"

To the Drimulan's surprise, the Jedi laughed gently. "Of course, he's damaged. We're all damaged. It's part of becoming Jedi - to be damaged - and overcome it."

"But what if he . . ."

"He won't."

"You can't know that."

"Yes, I can," said the Master firmly. "I can know that, because I know Obi-Wan Kenobi. In a way, I might add, that you never will, never can. Truly, he may die fighting your ugly little war, Captain. Or another ugly little war, somewhere else. He probably will. Force, I probably will, too. We tend to have rather abbreviated life expectancies, you know. But . . . he will not do so deliberately, or carelessly. If he gives his life, it will be for a reason. You need not be concerned about that."

Fer'mia stared out into the spectacle of the nebula, just in time to see another of the Drimulan frigates heel hard to starboard and expel a flash of hot gas and electrical sparks.

"Cap'n," called the first mate, "they're starting a run for our flank."

"Compensate, Helm," he replied, moving forward to lend his own piloting skills to supplement that of the harried young ensign who clung so tenaciously to a station still sparking with electrical shorts and blackened fibers.

"All right, Dyprio," he said abruptly. "We'll play it your way. But . . ."

There was a brief, eerie pause, as all eyes on the bridge seemed to focus suddenly on Fer'mia's face. "I don't want him to die out here," he said softly.

"They're firing, Cap," shouted Palani. "Reinforcing forward shields. Firming up at 84 percent."

"It'll have to do," replied Fer'mia, totally without inflection. "Let's give 'em a spread of torpedoes, Lads. See if they can eat that."

Palani Vau-Bremayne moved to stand beside Fer'mia's seat, and stared at a tactical display screen. "Oh, shit!" she hissed.

"What?"

"Two squadrons of split-wings are breaking off and heading for the _Angel_."

"We see 'em, Base," came a voice from the comm. "This is Echo One, but I don't know if we can get to them in time. We're a little busy here."

Fer'mia nodded. " _Angel_ ," he called sharply, "you've got incoming."

"I see 'em," replied Ciara instantly. "Not to worry, _Ghost_. We'll handle it."

"But you're stuck with that . . ."

"Releasing umbilical," came the response. "You copy that, Obi?"

"Gotcha, Chi." The answer was immediate. "Take care of my ship, or let her take care of you."

The mutter that came over the comm channel was barely audible, but it put a smile on every face. "Everybody's a smart-ass," said the girl.

"Captain Fer'mia," said another voice, deep, harmonic, somehow serene, having waited to conclude their conversation. There was almost a stroke of affection in Dyprio's tone. "I don't want him to die out here either. But we have to trust him enough to allow him to be what he is. Otherwise, he's already dead."

"Understood, Master Jedi," answered the captain quickly. "Let's hope we have the chance to debate and discuss it later."

 

**************** ************* ******************

 

There wasn't much of the huge tanker that was intact; almost every deck was open to space at some point, but there were a few circuits that had survived the vessel's explosive decompression, and Obi-Wan had little trouble finding and tracing them.

Also the two innermost fuel cells, furthest from the ruptures, had survived relatively intact, although one of them was useless for their purposes, as its connection to the tanker's circuits had been completely severed.

Obi-Wan reasoned - correctly - that he could have simply tapped the giant tank, and allowed the violent displacement of the contained concentrate to propel the tanker forward, but there would have been no semblance of control beyond that of his own manipulation of the Force. Which, of course, he could do, but it would be a wild ride, as he would have to compensate not only for the existing tumble of the great hulk, but for any outside influence, from either the nebula's currents or interference from the Drimulan fleet.

No, the better course, the more prudent course, and - definitely - the easiest course, was to tap into the tiny residual power of the tanker's steering circuits, and set a course to the target. It would still require continuous monitoring and constant adjustments but it should prove relatively stable, comparatively speaking.

"Obi-Wan," said Solitaire, through the comm link, "are you in place?"

"Affirmative," replied the Jedi. "Just cooling my jets, waiting for you."

"Can it be done?"

The Jedi grinned. "I can ignite the fuel, if you can boost the power in the guidance circuits."

"Then isn't it convenient," said Zark Quebal, "that I just happen to have an extra power converter in my pack?"

"Then what are we waiting for?" asked Obi-Wan.

"We're waiting," replied Solitaire, "for you to figure out how to rig that fuel cell to ignite remotely."

"Oh, for the . . ."

"Remotely, Kenobi," said the Weapons Master sternly, "or not at all."

"I'm not leaving my lightsaber," snapped the Jedi. "Forget it!"

"Unless I miss my guess," retorted Solitaire, "every Jedi worth his salt carries at least one spare crystal. Right?"

For a moment, Obi-Wan was silent - sullen. Finally, he sighed. "Right!"

"Then kindly do as I say," said Solitaire. "Rig it to ignite, with a five-minute electronic fuse, then get back to the level where you came aboard. Quebal will have the power source running by then, and we should be able to set course - and abandon ship."  
With a sigh, Obi-Wan set to work, retrieving his spare focusing crystal from the hilt of his saber, and setting it in place to engender the power pulse that would ignite the fuel concentrate within the cell, thus channeling power to the one thruster that was still unobstructed by twisted wreckage from the original crash. It would not actually be a controlled thrust; there was, after all, no engine to provide steady, manageable power. But the directed flow of the ignited concentrate would serve to propel the tanker hulk forward, and the repowered guidance channel would allow some measure of control.

The question, of course, was, how much. 

Rigging the device was a matter of minutes.

When he stepped away from the cell control unit, there was a sudden squawk over his comm channel.

"Obi," said Ciara abruptly, "we may have a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

"We're being swarmed out here," she answered, and he heard the distinctive whine of laser fire in the background. "No problem holding our own, of course. Between this Force-blessed ship - and Master Ramal - they might as well be throwing spitballs at us. But if I try to reattach the umbilical . . . ."

"The _Angel_ is a sitting mynock," he concluded.

"You got it," she answered. "Plus, I think we can safely say they've figured out what you're trying to do. Another squadron of marauders just launched from the capital ship, and they're headed straight for you. I don't think they're any real threat; we can handle them. But how do I . . ."

"You don't," he answered. "Let me check on something, and I'll get back to you."

"Yeah, well, don't dawdle, cause it's getting really tense out here."

With Jebbitz hard put to keep pace, the Jedi pushed off and launched himself toward the open hatch, keying his comm signal as he went.

"Solitaire, are there any escape pods left on board this thing?" he asked, as he cleared the hatch.

"Several," came the response, "but I don't know if they're operational. This wreck has been here for some time."

"Granted," replied the Jedi, "but not long enough for all her circuits to go dead - so maybe . . ."

"You telling me we're going to need escape pods, Kenobi?"

"I'm telling you we might."

"OK, I'll take a look."

"Don't bother," said Obi-Wan, clearing the last of a series of short companionways. "I'm there."

A full minute later, Jebbitz plunged through the last of the open hatches, his breathing stentorious, even within the confines of his suit.

"Dammit, Obi," he gasped, "don't do that again. I never saw anybody move that fast."

"Jeb," said Obi-Wan, with exaggerated patience, "I'm Jedi. We tend to move pretty fast. It's normal for us."

"Yeah, well," replied the Corellian, stopping to rest his hands on his knees, "it's killing me."

"So stop chasing me," came the answer. "I told you; it's not necessary."

Jeb made no attempt to answer, still gasping for breath. But Obi-Wan knew his words had fallen on deaf ears, just as they had from the first moment the big Corellian had been assigned to look after him.

"So," said Solitaire's voice, "anything?"

Obi-Wan actually smiled. "Looks like we finally got lucky. Two of them look clean and functional."

"Just two?"

"Just two, but it should be enough. They're one man units, but large enough to take two, in a pinch. You and Quebal will fit in one; Jeb in the other."

"Ummhmm," replied the Weapons Master, "but, unless I've forgotten how to count, that still leaves us one short."

"I'll take the explorer," said Obi-Wan. "From the cockpit, I can help to control the trajectory of the tanker, even after we're free to maneuver."

"Any particular reason you have to be the one in the explorer?"

Obi-Wan suppressed a sigh, but not so completely that Solitaire didn't hear it. "Because I'm the Jedi. I'm the only one that has a chance of controlling the flight path once we get out. Now, all we have to do is make sure we can launch the pods and direct them away from the Drimulans and the target."

The comm channel flared with static before Ciara's voice came through, breaking up slightly. "Whatever you guys are going to do, do it fast. Otherwise, some of these bastards are going to break through to get at you, sooner or later."

Again, the whine of laser fire underscored her voice, and the whump of torpedo launchers punctuated her final words.

"Two minutes to fuel ignition," said Obi-Wan with a glance at his chronometer. "You guys got the course set in?"

"All set," said Zark calmly, and Obi-Wan felt a faint shimmer of dark energy swirl around him.

"Then get down here," he barked. "We're running out of time."

 

****************** ************** *******************

 

As the erstwhile away team came racing into the escape pod bay, different beings - on different vessels - with different angles and different motivations - trained their eyes on the dark, massive hulk of the gutted freighter tumbling port aft of the transport vessel, and, as one, gasped with amazement.

The hulk continued to move, but the tumble first slowed, then stopped altogether, and the tanker then began to take a new direction at a slow but inexorable pace.

Zark Quebal, Solitaire, and Jebbitz stood frozen for an eternity of tiny moments as Obi-Wan Kenobi, with what appeared to be nothing more than the lift of a hand (but was actually, of course, much, much more) neutralized the hulk's tumble, and augmented the guidance circuit's commands to stabilize its new path.

Then he grinned, and made a sweeping gesture toward the waiting pods. "Your chariots await, my lords."

"Not going without you," said Jebbitz stubbornly, planting his feet.

"Jeb, you have to. You won't fit in the explorer, and I have to . . ."

"Actually, you don't," said Zark. "I can take the explorer and use it to nudge the tanker along, if necessary."

Obi-Wan allowed a small measure of his exasperation to show. "Excuse me! Did anyone notice that I just stopped this hulk from tumbling? That means I can control its course, I think. Don't you?"

Quebal gestured toward a broad split in the hull, through which a veritable swarm of Drimulan fighters were visible, sweeping in fast. "They're not going to just stand by and allow you to destroy their treasure, Obi."

"All the more reason," replied the young Jedi, "that it has to be me. I can overcome whatever action they take. You can't."

Quebal huffed a huge sigh and nodded. "OK, Obi. Soli, get this pod ready."

It was only later, once the confusion of the moment was past, that Obi-Wan realized that Quebal had suddenly assumed command of the mission which, until that moment, had been Solitaire's responsibility.

The Weapons Master moved into the circular pod, reaching up to activate dormant circuits. Jebbitz still hesitated.

"Dammit, Jeb," said Obi. "Do as you're told, and get in that pod."

Quebal smiled. "Yes, Jeb. Do as I told you."

The strange tone of voice should have been adequate warning, Obi-Wan thought later; would have been if he hadn't allowed himself to be distracted by his own annoyance with the big Corellian. When the massive hands grabbed him and threw him into the depths of the pod that Solitaire had already activated, he was so stunned that, by the time he recovered sufficiently to respond, the pod had launched, and his body, restrained only by Solitaire's arms, which weren't nearly strong enough to hold him against the g-forces of the launch, went crashing, headfirst, into a titanium brace.

For some moments, he was both stunned, and confused.

"Come on, Obi," said a mechanical voice, almost in his ear. "We need to get you strapped in. Come on. Get up."

"Why did he . . ."

"Because we're not quite as stupid, or as gullible, as you think."

Obi-Wan hauled himself upright and reeled to the viewport, just in time to see a second pod explode from the pod bay.

"What do you mean?" he asked, allowing himself to sink to his knees as he noted an itchy sensation at his temple, which probably meant he was bleeding. Solitaire simply latched on to his arm, and dragged him to the padded couch on which the Weapons Master was already ensconced and fastened a long, weighted belt around both of them.

"I mean that you had no intention of surviving that crash. You meant to take that tanker right down the throat of the transport ship."

He turned to stare into the darkness of the armored mask, but, as always, saw nothing but his own reflection. "Isn't that what we needed to do?"

"It is," Solitaire agreed, "but not at the cost of your life."

A cold feeling settled suddenly into the base of Obi-Wan's spine, as he heard what the Weapons Master had not said. With trembling fingers, the Jedi activated his comm link.

"Quebal?"

There was a soft laugh. "Sorry about that, Kid. Hope you didn't get banged up too much."

"What are you doing?"

The laughter ended on a bitter note. "What do you think I'm doing?"

"Are you aboard the explorer?"

"That's affirmative."

"Have you exited the tanker?"

Now there was a definite pause. "Not exactly."

"Then what are you doing?"

"Right about now," came the answer, "I'm nosing up against the rear wall of the battle bridge, getting ready to engage full power."

"You can't do that," protested Obi-Wan. "It'll explode."

Quebal's smile was evident in his tone. "Nice try, Kid, but you and I both know better. I made sure; there's a clear path for the exhaust, so the build-up will be slow. Slow enough to let me get where I need to go. Slow enough to let me steer this big bitch right into the heart of the target. And, once I'm there - well - it won't really matter, will it?"

"Quebal, don't do this," begged Obi-Wan, feeling the sour taste of desperation rise in his throat. "Please. Why would you do this?"

For a moment, it seemed that the Drimulan would refuse to answer. But he didn't, and, when he spoke, Obi-Wan felt his heart seize within him.

"I told you about my son, Obi. Remember? I told you what happened to his mother, and that he was forced to watch it, helpless to intervene. What I didn't tell you was what happened to him after that. What he became."

"I assumed . . . ."

"That he died. Right? Well, you assumed wrong, my friend. He didn't die. He went on to prove that there really are some things that are worse than death."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes. "If he's still alive, then . . ."

Quebal laughed, but there was no joy in it. "You're not going to tell me that I should still have hope, are you?"

"If he . . ."

"He became one of them, Obi-Wan," said the Drimulan softly, and there was an entire universe of suffering in his voice. "What they did to his mother, he now does to anyone he chooses. Do you understand? My son is a torturer, a butcher, a rapist - and a murderer. That's quite a legacy, wouldn't you say?"

The young Jedi felt it then, felt the horrible impotence of the rage concealed beneath the man's quiet exterior, and a depth of bitter anguish unlike any he had ever tasted before. Instinctively, he reached out through the Force, trying to offer something - anything - to ease such monstrous torment.

"No!" shouted Quebal. "I don't want your pity, or your comfort, or your hope. I don't want to feel anything, any more." He stiffened and was, for just a fleeting moment, capable of pushing back against the warm radiant energy that had risen around him.

Obi-Wan slumped against Solitaire as his eyes rolled back in his head, neurons bombarded by a psychic feedback effect.

The Weapons Master thought perhaps it was a blessing, as the Jedi was still only semi-conscious when the twisted hulk of the tanker bore down on the wallowing transport that had been so hemmed in on all sides by both Drimulan and resistance forces that it had been unable to free itself from the confrontation and move to safety. The derelict simply ignored the angry frenzy of the fighters that strove to deflect it, and, ultimately, drove itself and its target into the path of a tumbling meteor roughly the size of the Jedi Temple.

The ensuing explosion was spectacular to behold, and, thought Solitaire, provided a fitting tribute to the individual who had driven the scenario to its conclusion.

 

************** ***************** ******************

 

"We really need to get the hell out of here," shouted Palani Vau-Bremayne, barely audible above the shriek of the emergency alarms.

The captain had stopped counting the steadily rising number of calamities the alarms were shrieking about. After the first five or so, he figured it really didn't much matter any more.

Fer'mia walked his bridge, or rather, stalked his bridge, like a mad man, threatening, cajoling, pleading, demanding - doing whatever it took to keep his crew functioning and his ship intact. Relatively.

"Not," he yelled back, "until I know where the _Angel_ is. Find her for me, and then we can go."

"Rain," said his first mate, her voice hoarse with strain and weariness, "you know they're not going to go without him."

"I do," he agreed, "and I know they're better able to stand up against whatever the fleet throws at them than we are, but I refuse to turn tail and run until I'm sure they're still looking for him."

A sudden chatter from the comm station drew the first mate's attention, and she snagged a sheet of flimsy as the unit spit it out. She glanced down at the communication, paused for a moment, and then broke suddenly into peals of laughter.

"What?" demanded Fer'mia, concerned suddenly for her sanity.

"It's from Jarielle," she replied, still chortling.

"Is she all right?"

"She's fine, but the Jedi. . . ."

"What about the Jedi?"

Palani couldn't seem to stop grinning. "Seems they've finally realized what they've thrown away."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning they want him back."

Fer'mia's eyes darkened, and Palani almost recoiled at the burst of sheer rage she read in them.

Then she laughed again. "Any response, Captain?"

The Ghost gazed out into the chaos of the battle that was still raging around them, noting that his crew continued to obey his will, even when his attention wandered elsewhere.

"Tell them," he said abruptly, "that we are currently engaged in ongoing negotiations that cannot be interrupted. Tell them that the services of young Mr. Kenobi have been invaluable to us, and we are loathe to relinquish them. Tell them we believe our struggle to be just and honorable and worthy of the efforts of such a noble young man. And, above all, tell them to fuck off, because they can't have him."

Palani laughed again. "Yes, Sir."

"Cap'n," said the young woman who was standing in at the comm station in lieu of the young man who normally worked there, a young man who was now nothing more than a charred body among many stacked in the cargo hold that was serving as a temporary morgue.  
"Yes, Marmily, what is it?"

"I think," she said softly, obviously not wanting to be wrong, "that I've got the _Angel_. The channel isn't very clear, but I . . . ."

Fer'mia interrupted her with an abrupt gesture. "Dyprio, are you there?"

For a moment, there was only static. Then a voice swelled, only to recede, before swelling again. ". . .traced it to a small planet just outside the nebula. Homing beacon is . . . . . no contact. Unfortunately, the Drimulans are . . . ."

"They've traced the pod," said Palani.

He nodded. "But so has someone else. We need . . ."

"Rain," she said firmly, "we can't help them. Not like this. We need to withdraw and regroup. You know that as well as I do. Like this, we'll do more harm than good."

"Lani," he said softly, "I can't . . ."

"Yes," she overrode him. "You can. You've been making the hard calls all your life. Now you have to make another one. Don't you think I know how you feel about that kid? But you can't help him if you get yourself blown up, or taken by the Drimulans. We've got to withdraw. Now!"

Finally, he mastered the rage that threatened to rise within him, the rage that Palani had clearly seen and dared to defy, at some risk to herself. He nodded wearily.

"Recall the fighters," called the first mate, "and sound retreat. We need to get the fuck out of here." 

Of the seven vessels which had previously comprised the Resistance battle force, six had survived the confrontation in the nebula, although several were much the worse for wear. An eighth, new to the fleet, had withdrawn during the heat of the battle, after inflicting major damage on both fighter wings and larger vessels, to pursue the clarion call of its Master's voice. 

The withdrawal was accomplished with swift efficiency. In a prismatic burst of incandescence, the Ghost fleet was gone.

The Drimulan fleet had fared worse than its counterpart, counting three vessels completely decimated, six more temporarily disabled, numerous fighters lost, and - most devastating of all from the perspective of the Drimulan government and the mining consortium that drove it - the transport vehicle and its cargo completely destroyed.

The Drimulans in general, and their commanding general in particular, were angry and looking for a target for revenge.

On a planet just beyond the rim of the nebula, a random sensor sweep by one of the fighter squadrons en route back to the Drimulan flagship detected an unexpected signal.

Nothing could compensate for the frustration and tactical catastrophe of this day, but at least the fleet could now claim some sort of symbolic victory.

A target had been acquired.

**************** **************** *************** 

The landing had not gone well. The escape pod, despite retaining certain functions, was quite old, and probably had not been well maintained even before the vessel became a derelict.

Solitaire thought that Obi-Wan might have been the lucky one, as he was still skirting unconsciousness when the spherical pod slammed into the rocky surface of the planet and bounced, once, twice, three times - before coming to rest at an extreme angle.

Since the pod had been intended originally for a single individual, the restraints within it had not fit the two of them very well, and he had been forced to hold on to the young Jedi with brute strength through the worst of the turbulence to prevent him being thrown free of the safety harness.

At last, however, they were down - and still - and alive. Relatively, thought the Weapons Master, as it seemed every single bone in his body was shrieking in protest.

Obi-Wan, however, appeared totally boneless, as he was unconscious again, and Solitaire had no idea why. Maybe he had hit his head - again - as they were tossed around. And maybe the psychic whatsis, from Quebal (and wow, what a sensation that had been; even though the Weapons Master had about as much Force sensitivity as your average rock, he had still felt the wave of dark energy that so harshly impacted the Jedi) had whammied him again.

It made little difference, in the end. He was still out, for whatever reason, and Solitaire was left with the task of getting both of them out of the pod, and into some kind of shelter. He was too experienced in the manner of battles with Drimulan forces to assume that no one would pursue them; he knew better.

So, what they had to do was get out of the pod; find a place to shelter until they were found; and hope they were found by the right people.

The Weapons Master carefully loosened the safety harness, and settled Obi-Wan against the padded seat, as he moved to gaze out the tiny porthole to gauge what awaited them outside.

It was not encouraging.

A storm was raging, and, by the gods, what a storm!

Cautiously, he cracked the hatch, and fought an incredibly strong impulse to shrink back into the pod. The sheer volume of the atmospheric turbulence was enough to frighten the stoutest of hearts, and the wind was like a living thing with hard, grasping fingers. Electricity streaked through the air, writhing and snapping, and the crack of thunder was deafening.

Bracing himself against the pod, which was trembling against the onslaught of the tempest, Solitaire swept a portable sensor in an arc around him, struggling to interpret the read-outs while shielding his faceplate from thick drifts of wind-driven debris with gloved hands.

A slight spike in the instrument's signal made him pause, and repeat the sweep.

Again the spike.

Solitaire could only hope that the signal variation was indicative of something more than interference.

Quickly, he darted back into the pod, and, finding Obi-Wan just beginning to come to his senses, urged the Jedi to his feet, and fought his way out into the storm. The former padawan, still confused and only semi-conscious, planted his feet and seemed determined to remain rooted to the spot.

"C'mon, Obi," urged the Weapons Master. "We're not safe here. Gotta move."

Obi-Wan appeared to lift his head in an attempt to gain his bearings. "Am I drunk?"

"No, you were hurt. Now, come on."

Obi-Wan sagged back against the pod. "Shitty place," he observed.

"Yes, it is. Now come on. Let's get out of here."

"Who're you?"

"Shit!" snapped Solitaire. "I don't have time for this, you little prick. It doesn't matter who I am or who you are. If we don't get out of here and find some kind of shelter, they're going to fry both our asses. Now, move, you little bastard!"

For a moment, Obi-Wan remained completely still. "OK," he said finally, and turned to take a step into the wind.

Which was the exact moment when a crackling twist of electricity leapt from the air and twined itself completely around his torso, sending him crashing to his knees before he toppled forward, face-down.

"Oh, shit!" Solitaire yelled, reaching for the kid but having sufficient common sense to wait until the electrical bolt vanished.

He didn't wait for anything else. He simply twisted his hands in Obi-Wan's suit, and pulled.

And then, just a few meters away, he thought that he might just get down on his knees and kiss the ugly ground before him, the part of it that led into the mouth of a cave, low, and dark and menacing - but deep enough, apparently, to provide some measure of shelter.

He dragged Obi-Wan inside, as far back from the opening as possible, before leaning forward to check the boy's condition.

His breath caught painfully in his chest. The Jedi wasn't breathing.

"Damn, damn, damn," muttered the Weapons Master, digging in his utility belt for the instrument he needed. Finally, he found what he was looking for, and activated the tiny sensor unit.

The air, he noted gratefully, was breathable. Barely, but it would suffice.

"Damn," he repeated, as he ripped away the helmet that obscured the Jedi's face, then tore open the closures that held the enviro-suit together.

Once more, he paused, and checked for lifesigns. No breath. No heartbeat.

"Damn."

There could be no hesitation; the Jedi's life was forfeit unless . . .

With only a tiny sigh, Solitaire lifted his hands, untoggled the switches that locked his helmet to his armored suit, and removed the shield completely. Moments later, the entire suit of armor, so similar to that worn by the Mandalorians, was tossed aside.

"Damn." Without further hesitation, the Weapons Master moved to sit astride the young Jedi and placed strong hands against his sternum before leaning forward to cover the young man's lips and push lifesaving breath into his lungs.

Then the compressions began, the chest compressions designed to start the human heart.

It seemed to go on forever; the series of compressions, followed by the forcing of air into silent lungs.

In actuality, it only lasted a few minutes.

It ended very abruptly.

With a bang rather than a whimper.

Obi-Wan emerged from a bottomless chasm, and decided that the sensations he was experiencing, despite a leaden weariness that seemed determined to drag him back into the darkness, were not entirely without pleasure. He thought he would just take a quick look at what was going on before deciding if he had any interest in rejoining the land of the living, and found himself gazing up into the most beautiful pair of hazel eyes he had ever seen. He also found his lips opening under the sweet breath of . . . .whoever this woman was. And he also found, for just a bare second, that he really didn't much care who she might be.

That, of course, was the exact moment the first bomb fell, and the cave began to collapse around them.

**************** ******************* ********************

The little garden had had many names during its history. It would undoubtedly have many more as time wore on.

But for Master Yoda, it was now and always would be Obi-Wan's garden.

The diminutive Master sat on a tiny stone bench beside the reflecting pool, which at this moment was reflecting only the semi-orderly patterns of Coruscant traffic lines. It was not particularly conducive to peaceful meditation. And, for once, neither was his mood.

"You are troubled, my Master," observed Mace Windu, who stood in shadow, gazing up into the night in a vain attempt to find starlight in the semi-darkness.

Yoda remained silent, his ears drooping slightly.

"Why did you tell him that?"

The tiny Master raised his head and stared at his companion, stunned to recognize a faint thread of accusation in the question.

"Think you that this is what I wish?" he demanded. "Think you that I would not save the child if such power I had?"

Windu's gaze was steady, and still slightly angry. "Why?"

"Not for us," came the reply. "The future unfolds itself as it will, with or without the survival of Obi-Wan Kenobi."

"Are you saying he doesn't matter to us?"

Citrus eyes blinked slowly. "Oh, no, Master Mace. Matter, he does. More, perhaps, than any of us know. Lose him, we may, and the cost may be more than we can bear."

"Then why tell his Master . . .. "

"Understand, you do not," said Yoda, very softly. "Not for us. For Obi-Wan."

Windu stepped forward, and knelt before the most respected of all Jedi. "Then make me understand. If we must lose him, I want to know why."

Yoda sighed. "Pursued by darkness, he is. Terrible, greedy darkness that wishes only to consume him. Given a choice, to turn or to die - which think you would he choose?"

Master Mace closed his eyes against the horrible pain within his heart. "He's a Jedi. He would choose to die."

"Yes, but given that choice, he will not be, if the darkness succeeds in taking him."

"Then you meant only to spare him the . . . "

"Devastated would the Jedi be," said Yoda firmly, "to lose such a child of light, but survive we would. For a while, at least. But imagine, Master Mace, to be that child. And to continue to exist, as he would, as no more than a sphere of helpless consciousness locked away in the prison of a mind submerged in darkness. Imagine the suffering; imagine the pain; imagine the guilt. And, finally, imagine knowing that there would be no end to it, until the death of consciousness and the final severance from the Force."

"You believe he would remain aware, but helpless to act."

"I do."

"How would they . . ."

"Know how they would do it, I do not. Know only that they can, and will. And that allow this, we cannot. Our own, he is, and spare him this, we will, no matter what. His place in life, we may be unable to preserve, but his place in the Force will not be taken from him."

There was a stir in the shadows across the pool, and a tiny, elfin face moved forward into a pale reflection of light from a passing transport.

"Late it is, Little One," observed Yoda, somehow not surprised that the child had managed to elude her caregivers, find her way to this secluded spot, and shield her presence from him. Very little that Oomy did surprised the tiny Master any more. He had even entertained some fleeting thought to the possibility that the little girl might actually be the Chosen One long prophesied by Jedi myth. 

Oomy, as always, was not going to be distracted with frivolous comments or idle conversation. "You told him to kill my Obi," she accused, ignoring Master Windu as if he were as inanimate as the stones on which he knelt. "I won't let you do that."

"Child," began the venerable Master.

"No," she snapped. "I won't let you . . ."

"Love him, we do," said the Master softly. "As you do."

"Then you wouldn't . . ."

"Oomy," said Yoda, "would you have us allow him to fall to his enemies? Would you leave him to endure what they will do to him?"

"You have to bring him back here," she insisted, almost giving in to the urge to stamp her foot.

Mace Windu carefully stifled an urge to smile; he was fairly certain that, child or not, Oomy did not appreciate being an object of amusement.

"Trying to do that, we are," replied Yoda firmly. "But force him back, we cannot."

"Why not?" She was totally serious.

"The Temple," said Master Windu, managing somehow not to wince as she glowered at him, "is not a prison."

"Better a prison, than dead," she retorted, entirely reasonable.

Uneasily, the two Masters exchanged glances, and Mace Windu actually smiled. _Out of the mouths of babes. We should never have let him go._

Yoda merely nodded. "Allow him to suffer, we will not, Little Oomy. Protect him, we will, as best we can."

She leaned forward, and allowed her gray eyes to fill with frost. "Your rules are stupid, Master Yoda. Save him, or the Jedi will lose their only means of saving themselves."

She turned and sprinted away into the darkness.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," observed Mace Windu, "but I think she just called us stupid."

"Ummmm," came the response. "And a prophecy, she just delivered, as well."

Windu's eyes widened. "You think that child . . . "

"Sees clearly, and very far," replied the tiny Master. 

"A prophecy," mused Windu, "or a threat?"

Master Yoda struggled to his feet, feeling every one of his hundreds of years. His eyes were huge and filled with shadows.

"Both," he said softly, before walking away into the darkness.

***************** ************** ******************

"Excuse me," he said softly, and felt ridiculous for bothering with courtesy as a huge explosion seemed to go off about two feet above his head, "but who are you?"

Another cataclysm erupted, in almost exactly the same place, and plumes of dark soil and rock particles writhed in the darkness around them.

"Excuse me," came the response, "but you _are_ a Jedi, aren't you? Can you do something about this?"

Obi-Wan tried to fight his way through the haze that seemed to have settled in his mind, like a curtain obscuring his path to clear logic, and reached for the Force with mental fingers not nearly as precise as usual. Still, it was there for him, as it always was, and it answered immediately, filling his figurative hands with the power he needed - or part of it anyway.

He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, which wasn't easy under the circumstances. The woman was lying full length across his body, her face only inches from his, her limbs intertwined with his own, and there was very little room for either of them to maneuver in any direction.

The Force, in his mind, became a transparent bubble, tiny at first, but expanding rapidly. With a sharp flex, deep in his consciousness, he pushed it up and away, and felt it snap into existence surrounding the tiny area in which they lay. 

There was little immediate effect, other than the abrupt settling of the cloud of dirt and debris that surrounded them.

He opened his eyes again and had to suppress an urge to smile. The face suspended above him - a lovely face, he thought, although there really wasn't enough light to be sure - was almost obscured beneath a thick layer of grime. He ran his tongue over his teeth, and realized that he undoubtedly looked the same as he tasted bitter mud.

The explosions continued, though not quite as close as they had been.

"Are we going to suffocate in here?" she asked, remarkably calm, given the circumstances.

"No," he answered. "There's a conduit to the surface. If they don't manage to collapse the whole cave, we should be all right."

She wriggled forward a bit, and he suppressed a gasp as her elbow dug into his chest.

"Sorry," she muttered. "Not much room to maneuver. You want some water?"

He looked up at her again. "You never answered me."

She stopped moving, and forced herself to face him squarely. "C'mon, Kenobi. You know who I am."

He smiled. "I know who your Force signature says you are, but . . . "

"But Solitaire isn't a girl. Right?"

"Right! So, you going to explain this?"

She allowed herself a small smile. "If I have to explain it, then you're not as smart as I think you are."

He regarded her solemnly for a moment before nodding. "Okay. I think I can figure it out. But Palani seems to have done all right for herself, as a female. So . . ."

She gave him what could only be described as a smirk. "It's pretty dark in here, Jedi, so you can't see much." Then she paused, and he saw genuine amusement, and a soupcon of mischief, flare in her eyes. "However," she continued, in a voice subtly altered, subtly seductive, "maybe you can feel sufficiently to notice a substantial difference between me and Palani."

She allowed her full weight to collapse against him then, and he was suddenly pretty sure that a protocol droid would have had sufficient sensitivity to note the 'difference' she had mentioned.

She was tiny and curvacious and very, very soft, and the skin of her throat, which was somehow suddenly pressed against his face practically cried out to be touched.

She raised her head and looked down at him, the smile in her eyes warm and knowing. 

"I see your point," he said softly.

She laughed and wriggled against him again. "And I . . . 'see' yours."

He managed - barely - to suppress a moan.

A new round of explosions erupted above them, and the cave was seized with tremors.

"Shit!" she muttered. "They're not giving up. They probably picked up the homing signal from the pod."

He closed his eyes, and reached out through the Force; it didn't take long to probe the motivations of their attacker.

"They're royally pissed off," he reported, "and not likely to give up any time soon."

Another monstrous explosion rumbled overhead, and she flinched. "How long can you hold this thing together?"

He sighed. "I don't know. A direct hit will probably take it - and us - out."

She was quiet for a few minutes, as the barrage went on. Finally, she looked down and met his eyes with a shy smile. "So this is it then?"

"Maybe," he answered softly. "I can't tell."

"So you've never seen your own death," she concluded.

"No. Most Jedi can't, you know. No one quite knows why."

"Motivation," she replied quickly.

He chuckled. "How do you figure?"

"The Force isn't stupid. If you knew when and how you'd go, maybe you'd just decide that everything was futile anyway, so why bother?"

Another explosion - the closest yet - reverberated through their tiny sanctuary.

"You know what?" she asked, when the roar had subsided.

"What?"

"I don't think I want to give those bastards the satisfaction of forcing us to just sit here and wait to die."

He twisted slightly to be able to see her eyes more clearly. "You have a plan?"

She grinned. "You might say that."

"Fire away."

"I just thought that maybe," she said softly, "it would be a good idea to do what I've been thinking about doing since the first time I saw you."

"Which is what?" he asked suspiciously, images of knife fights and martial arts matches flashing through his mind.

"Which is this," she replied, and leaned forward to cover his mouth with her own.

Some minutes later, as the chaos continued outside, they broke for air, both flushed and more than a little breathless.

"So," she whispered, "how good are you with manipulating matter with the Force?"

"Pretty good," he answered, burying his face once more in the velvet texture of her throat. "Why?"

"Because both of us appear to be overdressed."

He laughed. "Tell me something. Is this why you called me a little whore the first time we sparred?"

Her grin was infectious. "Well, I had to do something. It was either find a way to make you mad, or just throw you down on the mats and rip your clothes off, right there in front of the whole crew."

Fresh explosions - really close - caused the ground to heave beneath them.

"Fuck!" he snapped, fighting to stabilize the Force shield that was flexing beneath the onslaught, but holding. So far.

She framed his face with hands far too delicate to be those of a weapons master and dropped a kiss on the cleft of his chin. "At your command, my Master," she breathed.

And Obi-Wan released the flood of anxieties that had risen within him, sending them all spinning away into the Force.

He had done everything that was doable. Only time and random chance would determine the rest.

Moving with infinite care, using the gifts he had been born with, he managed to turn them over, until she was lying beneath him, and, in the process, remove most of their clothing.

Some part of him, probably the rigid Jedi part, knew that this was wrong; knew that it was no more than a hedonistic indulgence, in the face of doom; defiance in the grip of destiny. Another part of him, the part that seemed to be centered, for the moment, around a very specific, very insistent, very eager part of his anatomy, found that he didn't much care about the rightness of it all. Very likely, he was going to die here, buried in this wretched burrow. But, he thought, there was no reason he had to die miserable.

By the gods, she was lovely, with laughing hazel eyes, skin like pale honey, and a cap of dark gold hair that curled about an elfin face.

The mayhem continued, the bombs falling thick and fast and unrelenting.

And the day darkened quickly as shadows lengthened into twilight.

And, in their tiny shelter, the Jedi and the weapons master taught each other how to live in the moment.

***************** ****************** **************  
tbc


	26. Giant Shadows on the Wall

Chapter 26: Giant Shadows on the Wall

_If you will observe, it doesn't take_  
 _A man of giant mould to make_  
 _A giant shadow on the wall;_  
 _And he who in our daily sight_  
 _Seems but a figure mean and small,_  
 _Outlined in Fame's illusive light_ ,  
 _May stalk, a silhouette sublime,_  
 _Across the canvas of his time._

\-------- John Townsend Trowbridge -- _Author's Night_

 

The rumble faded occasionally, but it never completely died away, as the last pallid gleam of day slipped unnoticed into the pall of night. When a leaden, steady rain began to fall, and thread trickles of black water through crevices of dark soil and weathered stone, the two young people huddled in the dubious shelter of the lowering cave looked at each other in the fading glow of the one functional glow rod they had discovered among their supplies, and collapsed into helpless laughter.

It was, finally, just too much.

They had lain in each other's arms for hours, assaulted by the viciousness of the attack that raged all around their bleak little sanctuary, and found oblivion, from time to time, in the exchange of sweet, fiery kisses and soft flesh-against-flesh, both managing to ignore the mud in which they lay and the circumstances that put them there. With Force manipulation that would surely have earned him a reprimand from his Master (ex-Master, his rational mind reminded him) Obi had managed to extend and intensify their lovemaking, to close out the hatred and bitter fury that sought to destroy them, and to weave a shield around them that became a sort of emotional echo chamber, reflecting soft cries and shared laughter, blissful moans and, finally, confirmations of the rise and crest of sweet madness.

It would have been very nearly perfect, if there had not been bombs bursting above them, animal spoor perfuming the air around them, tiny, slithery creatures sharing their burrow with them, and, now - the final indignity - black, foul-smelling water forcing its way into their space.

Obi-Wan moved slightly, trying to shield his companion from a new trickle that splashed dark liquid into her hair. "When we get out of here," he said, not having to shout quite as loudly as he had earlier, "we find a bathtub. I refuse to believe you smell like stale minocka droppings."

"Ummm," she replied. "You, too, but you still taste like sweet spice." And she lifted her head and nuzzled his lips to be sure. "Yep, sweet, sw-e-e-e-e-e-t spice."

He smiled down at her. "Who would have dreamed" - he paused to take a taste of his own - "that the mighty Weapons Master" - another pause, another taste - "would turn out to be a sensualist?"

"Is that a complaint?" she laughed, suddenly finding the perfect fit between her face and his throat to be completely compelling.

To her amazement, the young Jedi actually purred, or, at least, that's what it felt like, from her perspective, and she laughed again, delightedly. "If you do that again, I'm not even going to try resisting taking a bite out of you. Sweet mother, even coated with slime, you're a feast for the senses, Kid."

"Don't call me that," he murmured, raising his head to gaze into her eyes, which darkened swiftly as her pupils expanded. "I'm not a kid."

She smiled, and nestled closer. "Don't confound me with logic," she whispered. "I'm just indulging my favorite fantasy."

Calloused fingertips traced the line of her collarbone with feather-light delicacy. "Which would be what?"

A sudden twitch brought her body more perfectly in line with his own, with very . . . interesting results, as she grinned. "Robbing the cradle." 

His chuckle rumbled deep in his throat as he surrendered once more to the white heat rising within him.

**************** ******************** *****************

An hour later, the bombardment had resumed at full volume, and the two young lovers, almost completely spent now, lay side-by-side in darkness broken only by the artillery flashes outside the cave. The rain, at least, had stopped, so they were in no immediate danger of drowning, but that was probably the least of their worries.

"They're not going to give up," she said solemnly. "Are they?"

"So it seems," he replied.

She turned to stare at him, surprised by what sounded like a note of resignation in his voice. "Can't you mask our presence, or something?"

He smiled. "Jedi mind tricks only work on minds, not on scanning equipment. The storm is creating enough disturbance in the atmosphere to prevent them from zeroing in on our location, but, as long as their sensors pick up life signs, they won't give up."

She rolled over on her belly and propped her head on her hand to look down at him. "So do we just resign ourselves to the inevitable?"

He gestured toward the cave entrance, where bolts of deadly energy writhed in the murky atmosphere. "You want to go out in that? Just hold on. Very few things in life are really inevitable."

She folded her arms across his chest and rested her chin against them, a bright grin lighting her face. "That is such Jedi crap," she retorted, "and you are so full of it."

He raised his head and kissed her gently. "Why don't you tell me your name?" he said softly, managing, somehow, to be heard, without really raising his voice.

"You know my name." Her tone was suddenly distant, almost suspicious.

"No," he answered smoothly, "I know the name you've chosen to go by, but it's not your name."

"Now how did you . . . ."

Another harsh flash of brilliance, and she laughed when he crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue.

"Okay, Okay," she conceded. "You're Jedi, so you know these things. Did you know before?"

"I knew you weren't who - or what - you said you were. And you're evading my question."

She lowered her head until her face was buried against his chest. "It's difficult."

Now it was his turn to laugh. "You allow me to explore your body, but you won't tell me your name?"

"My body," she retorted, "has nothing to hide."

He allowed himself an appreciative leer. "That's affirmative."

With a lazy smile, she leaned forward and circled one golden tan nipple with her tongue, feeling a frisson of delight all the way into her toes when he gasped softly. "You're still evading," he muttered, then gasped again as she nipped, none too gently, "but feel free to go right on . . . doing what you're doing."

Her laugh was slightly husky. "All my life I've heard about Jedi stamina, but, honestly, Obi, I never dreamed what it really meant."

He rolled and pulled her in closer, and took a big drop of oily mud right in the face. "Sith!" he spat. "This is getting ridiculous. I've got slime in places I didn't even know I had."

A new series of reverberations shook the ground beneath them and the walls around them, and they both winced.

"Closer," he said, reaching out through the Force to try to shore up the shield that he had constructed around them. It was still intact, but it was weakening under the continuous onslaught and his growing weariness. He looked down into the eyes of his companion and smiled with more than a trace of regret. "I think if I don't concentrate on keeping everything intact . . ."

"P'ryn," she said gently.

"What?"

"That's my name."

"P'ryn?"

"Yes."

"Just P'ryn?"

"No, but that's all you're going to get."

As another wave of explosions swept toward them, he quickly dipped his head and claimed her lips in a hard, brief kiss. "Right now," he said, twisting to reach out with his hands, somehow projecting additional strength through the gesture, "I'll accept that. But when we get out of here . . ."

She slithered slightly away from him, reaching down to retrieve some of the clothing they had discarded earlier. "When we get out of here," she echoed, "I go back to being Solitaire."

He glanced toward her, and saw immediately that she was dead serious.

"All the time?" he asked.

She shrugged. "It's who I am, all the time." Her eyes flashed suddenly. "So don't screw me over, little Jedi" - her smile was radiant - "any more than you already have."

"Does anyone else know?" he asked suddenly, realizing that maintaining such a complete fiction, all the time, for everyone, would be extremely difficult, not to mention totally exhausting and, somehow, disheartening.

Trying, without much success, to wipe away a thick coat of viscous mud from her helmet, she frowned slightly. "Sometimes I think Rain knows - part of it, anyway - though he's never said anything. And the healer knows, of course."

"The Pholtchz knows? And keeps quiet about it?"

She grinned. "Rakoo's not a bad sort, actually. He took it pretty well. Of course, I have a little advantage over you, in that area."

"Such as?"

The grin became a laugh. "He only likes pretty human boys."

"So," he replied softly, "I guess that means there's no possibility of a long, slow, relaxing soak in a nice, hot, steaming bathtub."

She threw a sock at him, a soggy, smelly sock, which smacked him just below his left cheekbone. But he noticed that she didn't actually say, "No", and he suppressed a gentle laugh.

"There is no passion," she intoned solemnly, as she wriggled into a shapeless undertunic. The solemnity morphed into biting sarcasm. "My ass!"

He twisted slightly to see her face as new flashes of actinic radiance strobed beyond the cave's low opening, and paused abruptly, something - something familiar that he could not quite identify gripping his mind with unexpectedly warm fingers.

"What?" she demanded, noting his sudden expression of uncertainty.

"Nothing," he answered, going back to his reinforcement of their shielding. Still, there was something, something . . . something that was almost a sense of déjà vu, which was a sensation that Jedi almost never experienced. Furthermore, she knew there was something, just as he did.

It took another five minutes or so, and a few more speculative glances from the young Jedi, to convince her that there was little point in maintaining her silence. His curiosity had been piqued, and he was not the type to simply let something drop in such a situation. He would figure it out eventually, and maybe, give away more than she could afford in the process. All in all, better to tell him now.

She tucked herself into a corner of their narrow cave that was, perhaps, just a tiny bit drier than the other corners, and regarded him with a warm smile. She should be upset about the events of this day; she had maintained her secrets for a very long time and had never intended to allow him to breach them. Her secrets were as much a protective device as her armor and her martial abilities.

Nevertheless, even there, in that dank, miserable little hole in the ground, she could not be entirely sorry; could not entirely regret what had happened, for, by the Force, even covered in muck and stinking of things too vile to mention, he was still a feast for the senses, and she thought it entirely unfair. People - men in particular - should not have eyes that color; it was indecent - and totally, exquisitely beautiful. And even though her knowledge of the Jedi and many of their traditions was fairly extensive, she had been delighted to learn that the ability to manipulate the Force had some extremely interesting if entirely unexpected applications.

She continued to struggle to push chilled, wet limbs into even chillier, wetter clothing, but her smile never wavered. "They say I look like her," she offered finally, running her fingers through hopelessly tangled hair. "Only she's darker. That's why you keep wondering why I look familiar. I don't much see the resemblance myself, but they say you never do see yourself in someone else."

"She who?" he asked, as he peered out into the wind-battered night, trying to determine how far away the bomb blasts were at this particular moment. Not far enough, he realized abruptly, as a nearby flash caused him to recoil slightly.

She laughed. "You're the Jedi," she taunted. "You tell me."

He turned to look at her again, and then he decided to utilize vision that was totally independent of his eyes. Through the Force, he reached out and bathed her in a warm luminous glow that she could almost feel, though her Force abilities were virtually non-existent.

After a few minutes, he laughed softly. "Master Depa," he said, with complete certainty. "I don't know why I didn't notice earlier."

She snickered. "Perhaps you were a little pre-occupied."

A particularly brilliant flare, accompanied by a ground-shaking crash, forced him to refocus his attention on the shielding, which was decidedly less stable than it had been earlier. "Can't imagine why you'd think so," he retorted, when the reverberation died away.

"Do you think I'm really very like her?" she asked pensively.

"Not so much," he answered, "but it's definitely there in your Force signature."

"I didn't know I _had_ a Force signature," she replied, tartly.

He smiled. "Every living thing has a Force signature."

She stared at him for a moment, and he glanced her way and froze as he read something disquieting in her eyes. "What?" he asked, not entirely sure he really wanted to know.

"Can you turn it off?" It was more than just idle curiosity; that much was obvious. "Does it ever . . . leave you in peace?"

"You make it sound like a curse," he replied, slightly bewildered. He couldn't remember ever having anyone treat his abilities as anything other than a blessing.

"Depa didn't always think it was such a great gift," she answered, maneuvering more tightly into the tiny niche of near dryness behind her. 

"Sister?" he asked idly.

"Cousin," she replied, "and I haven't seen her for a long time. Eight years, if I recall correctly. Is she . . ."

"She's perfect," he responded, "and more beautiful than ever. Funny. You know, you don't look Corellian."

She laughed. "Neither does Depa."

"True."

"You didn't answer me," she said firmly. 

He smothered a sigh. "I've never really tried to turn it off, so I guess the answer is, 'I don't know'. I'm not sure why you think I'd want to turn it off."

"Do you never feel as if your mind is invaded by the Force, and by all the people around you?"

"It's not like that," he replied, his eyes closing as he felt the energy of life move through him. "My focus determines what I see and hear and touch, so, no, it's never invasive. It's more like a reservoir of strength that I can draw on whenever I need it."

She nodded. "And what do you do with it, when you can't be a Jedi?"

She abruptly hated the brutally honest part of her that forced her to ask such a question, as she saw the pain knife through him and lodge somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. "I'll always be Jedi," he said with a tiny, rueful smile, "or so I'm told. I'm just not entirely sure what that means, when I'll never earn the rank or hold the title."

She shrugged. "Maybe you should concentrate on some other aspects of it, like the fact that you'll never have to justify your choices before the Jedi Council, or obey archaic rules that date back to the dawn of the Order, just because no one's ever had the balls to get them changed."

His gaze grew speculative (and, she admitted to herself, extremely sexy). "Did Master Depa tell you all this?"

"When she was a padawan," she answered, "she made it home occasionally."

"And she told you all this?"

She smiled. "She loved being a Jedi; it was the only thing she ever wanted. But she really hated some of the restrictions. She said they were designed to destroy free spirits."

She heard rather than saw his breath catch in his throat. "Some," he said faintly, "managed to survive."

 _Oh, shit!_ She reached out impulsively and pushed dripping hair out of his eyes. That his Master, the infamous Qui-Gon Jinn, had been the subject of hero worship for all the so-called 'free spirits' of the Jedi, went without saying. His defiance of the Council and the regulations he considered ridiculously restrictive and unreasonable was the stuff of legend.

He drew a deep, not quite steady breath, and studied her face in the semi-darkness. "Is she the one who taught you how to shield your thoughts?"

Now it was her turn to stifle a soft gasp. "No one else has ever noticed. How did you . . ."

"I'm Jedi," he answered. "We notice these things."

"I've encountered Jedi before," she retorted, not entirely pleased with his little disclosure. 

"And how do you know they didn't detect your shields?"

"They didn't . . ." She paused, and flashed him a tiny scapegrace grin. "But then, they wouldn't have said anything. Would they? Too rude, right?"

"Too intrusive," he answered. "We aren't in the habit of going around stealing people's thoughts, you know."

"In that case," she said abruptly, "how did you notice?"

Now the scapegrace grin was on his face. "Sometimes, things just sort of slip out. I didn't mean to - exactly."

For a moment, she debated whether she should be embarrassed, amused, or angry. Finally, she just laughed, reached over, and nuzzled on one perfect, entirely- too-tempting ear.

Suddenly, he lifted his head and appeared to be listening to something beyond the range of her hearing.

"What?" she demanded.

"Wait!"

"What is it?"

"Shhh! Listen."

After a brief moment, she insisted, "I don't hear anything."

"Exactly," he retorted, then reached for her and pulled her as far back into the narrow burrow as he could get, as he retrieved his lightsaber, which had been carefully preserved from the dampness in his thigh pocket. "Be quiet and be very still. Someone's coming."

 

****************** ****************** **************

It wasn't often that N'Vell Aji yielded to practicality in her choice of attire, but, when she did, she did so as thoroughly and carefully as she did everything else in her life.

As she strode onto the bridge of the _Witch's Moon_ , she cut a dashing figure, her customary satins and laces discarded in favor of form-fitting black leather pants and vest over a full-sleeved shirt of embroidered ivory silk. Her obsidian hair, gleaming almost blue in the overhead lights, was caught up at the crown of her head with jeweled pins, where it cascaded down her back in heavy curls.

She moved, thought Maleonaka Sirvik, like a great predator catling, all grace and strength and deadly concentration, in a package of lethal beauty. And lethal, at this moment, she most certainly was, for N'Vell was angry. No, he decided, that particular term didn't even begin to cover it; she was enraged, furious, insane in her wrath.

The scientist made absolutely sure that he was out of her line of sight.

Not that he, himself, was sanguine about the developments of the last couple of days. It was never easy to be forced to accept that many years of effort and dedication and time and work had just been rendered null and void - useless. There was no other way to phrase it. Useless, as the perfect plan, the grand scheme that had incorporated every possible permutation of facts - that had left nothing to chance - had been utterly and completely nullified, totally gutted, by one tiny, impossible circumstance: the soul bond awakened in a ten-year-old child by a Jedi padawan barely past pubescence. 

Sirvik resisted an impulse to shake his head in wonder.

A soul bond; an emotional connection that, until now, he had believed to be nothing more than myth, having never seen one, or even heard of such a thing, except in the realm of fantasy.

At odd moments, he still wasn't entirely sure he believed it, but the evidence collected so far was almost irrefutable.

Fact: the child, Oomy, had been genetically designed to perform two functions: to focus the Force powers of her creche mates so intensely that the strength of the powers would increase exponentially, thus overwhelming any resistance the Jedi could offer; and to respond with instant, unswerving obedience to the commands of N'Vell Aji and - to a lesser extent - the child of her dead brother, Xanatos.

Despite some early emotional resistance on the part of the little girl - she had always seemed to despise Xani, for example - all early indications were that she would function just as she was meant to and provide the perfect instrument for the destruction of the Jedi order. She would thus achieve two objectives: the fulfillment of an extremely lucrative contract between the partnership of N'Vell Aji and Maleonaka Sirvik, and a mysterious, anonymous client of whom little was known, except that he paid very handsomely, paid instantly for services desired, and was unparticular about methodology; and, of course, obtaining for N'Vell that which she desired most in the universe - revenge, served cold, of course, due to the years elapsed since the initial affront, but all the sweeter for it.

None of it would come to pass now. Or, at least, not in the manner originally intended. The Jedi would survive, for the moment. Or some of them would. He was fairly certain, however, that the individual who was almost entirely responsible for the collapse of their elaborate plan, would stand as surrogate for the entire Jedi order. Obi-Wan Kenobi would pay - and pay - and pay, for the soul bond that allowed a ten-year-old child to gather enough strength to resist the demands of a biological imperative.

Sirvik thought he would never quite be able to forget the look in N'Vell's eyes at the moment she had realized that all her dreams and schemes had come to nought. They had been in orbit around Coruscant at the time, close enough for her to contact the child directly, and even to break through the shielding the Jedi had erected around the boy, although the connection remained tentative and garbled.

She had spent several hours in the attempt to overcome the resistance in the girl's mind, had even, for a short time, thought she was making some progress.

Until the other presence intruded into the link she was trying to forge, a presence of such depth and cool serenity that she had recoiled, almost terrified. She had never before confronted such ancient certainty, such implacable determination, such immovable strength.

"The troll," she had gasped, as she had torn herself from the meditative state, her eyes dark with dread. "The troll has her now. I can't . . . "

She had struggled to regain her composure, but, even after regulating her breathing and regaining some vestige of color, it was obvious that she was still deeply troubled. "Set course to rendezvous with the Drimulan fleet," she had ordered abruptly, before turning and disappearing into her private cabin, where she had remained until this moment.

Cold determination was evident in every line of her body. She had, apparently, given no other choice, accepted what she could not change, but she was now even more obsessed with obtaining her means to avenge herself upon the Jedi.

The Order would pay, either collectively or individually.

It was time to move past the preliminaries, and conclude the chase. 

He watched as N'Vell circled the bridge, the fire in her eyes unmistakable, and boding ill for any who stepped into her path.

She stood silent before the huge, paristeel view port and gazed out into the chiaroscuro strangeness of the nebula for some minutes, before closing her eyes and reaching out through the Force. N'Vell's Force abilities were undisciplined and frequently erratic, but her telepathic skills were almost flawless.

She stiffened abruptly as her eyes flared open. "Hail them immediately," she ordered, and the co-pilot hastened to obey, obviously fearing for his life if she should find him unacceptably slow to respond.

When there was a flare of static, she didn't wait for a verbal response. "Ozvey, you idiot," she snapped, "stop what you're doing. At once."

Brath Ozvey, however, was not some low-level sycophant, accustomed to taking orders from the social and political elite. "I beg your pardon, your Highness," he said coldly, "but we have some of this Resistance scum trapped and I . . ."

"What you have 'trapped'," she retorted, "is a Jedi. One particular Jedi, and if he is dead, then I promise you this, General. Of the two of you, he is the lucky one. Do I make myself clear?"

"You're wrong," he replied. "His ship disengaged and . . ."

"I'm not wrong. His ship may be gone, but I assure you, he is down on that planet. And he is to be taken alive. Now, once again. Do you understand me?"

"Your Highness, I do not take my orders from you."

Suddenly, she threw her head back and laughed, and Maleonaka Sirvik felt cold chills run down his spine. He had never heard a more terrifying sound.

"Don't be a fool, General," she said, very softly. "Remember what the Drimulan Triumvirate really is, and rethink what you just said. Now, once more, and for the last time, do you understand me?"

The pause before he responded was brief, but very informative. N'Vell smiled. "Of course, your Highness. Shall we send a shuttle down?"

She closed her eyes again, and took just a moment to consider a course of action.

"No," she said finally. "We will withdraw."

"But don't you want to . . ."

"Oh, yes, General," she responded, almost purring now with satisfaction. "To catch him has become my entire reason for living. But I prefer to proceed more delicately. If we attempt to take him by force, he may be harmed, and I do not want him harmed."

"Then what, may I ask, do you propose?" Ozvey was beginning to sound just slightly annoyed.

N'Vell was not at all perturbed. "Not to worry, General. He will come to us. All we have to do is provide the right bait."

"And I take it," said Ozvey, not quite as put out as he had originally seemed, "that you have the bait we'll need."

She smiled. "Actually, General," she replied, "I haven't. But you do."

As the Drimulan flagship eased its way out of the turmoil of the nebula, the general pondered her words, and found that, almost despite himself, he was intrigued by this woman who seemed to be carved of ice. She might, after all, be worthy of further investigation, and, in the process, he would also find a means of extracting his own vengeance; nobody called him an idiot, and got away with it.

 

******************* **************** **********************

"Are you planning to spend the rest of your life rolling around in minocka shit, or would you prefer to come out of there?" The voice was somewhat weary, veined with impatience, and sardonic in the extreme.

Obi-Wan, still tugging recalcitrant clothing in place, rolled out of the cave entrance and stared at his rescuer with a tired grin. "Ciara," he said loudly, "you're the most beautiful sight I've ever seen."

She wrinkled her nose in disgust, as she was assaulted by waves of stench rising from his clothes. "Sorry, Obi, but I can't quite say the same about you."

He rose to his feet, a wicked gleam in his eye. "Oh, Sweetheart," he said broadly, "you know you don't mean that. Come give us a kiss."

"Obi-Wan Kenobi," she said sternly, taking a step back, "if you lay one grubby hand on me, you're going to be missing some protuberant body parts. Got it?"

He laughed softly, as Solitaire exited the cave, body armor and helmet mud-caked, but firmly in place.

"What happened to the hunters?" asked the Weapons Master, gesturing toward all the artillery damage around them.

"They just took off," answered Ciara. "Maybe they thought they got you."

Solitaire gave no response, but the look on Obi-Wan's face, under all the mud and gunk, said that he found that explanation sadly lacking.

"Something called them off," he said quietly, knowing he was right, but not quite sure how he knew. The Force often provided him with answers not quite in evidence, but, this time, even that didn't quite feel right.

"Look," said Ciara abruptly, "I don't really know why they left, but they did. Are we really going to stand around here debating why? They could change their minds, and come back, you know."

Obi-Wan grinned, and threatened once more to give her a kiss, but she turned and ran toward the nearby clearing where the _Angel_ waited. Behind her, the young Jedi reached out to touch the Weapons Master with a reassuring hand, but was shrugged off.

With a quick look at the back of the retreating padawan, Solitaire paused, pretending to adjust a boot strap. "Don't you dare, Kenobi," she said firmly, almost hissing with frustration. "If you start treating me like a helpless, little girl, so help me, I'll thrash your ass in front of the whole crew, and don't think I can't do it. You may be Jedi, but I'm a street fighter, and, if necessary, I fight dirty. So don't push it. OK?"

He smiled. "Sorry. It's just tough to adjust."

She straightened and headed for the ship. "Just picture yourself wearing that lightsaber wrapped around your throat. That ought to do it. And don't smile at me like that."

He sobered immediately, swallowing a chuckle. "Am I allowed to look at you?"

There was a sound that might have been a smothered laugh. "No."

"Never?"

"Well . . . ."

"Well?" They were very near the ship by now.

"Maybe when you drop in for a visit. At my apartment, on Haven. Which just happens to be next door to yours."

"Convenient."

"Very." 

****************** ***************** *******************

With the _Angel_ tucked snugly in the _Lady Ghost'_ s landing bay, Obi-Wan had allowed himself the luxury of a soak in the old-fashioned, beautifully appointed spa that was one of the real concessions to creature comfort aboard Fer'mia's vessel. He had been forced to drain and refill the free-form pool three times before being reasonably sure that all the detritus from his sojourn in the cave had been rinsed away.

The fourth time, he had raised the temperature level to its highest setting, rated, according to the cautionary label, barely within the tolerance of most humanoid species, the setting once dubbed by Qui-Gon Jinn - knowing Obi-Wan's fondness for really hot water - padawan parboil (and where in the nineteen levels of Sith hell had _that_ memory come from?)

When he sank into the almost excruciating heat, he lapsed into a fugue state of semi-consciousness, surrendering himself to the luxury of the moment.

Of course, in such a mentally somnolent state, his thoughts were unguarded. Since he had already allowed the name to surface in his mind, could other memories - more complex memories - be far behind?

He tried to push them away, but some things, it seemed, were beyond denying.

Hot water, and cool air. These had always been his preferences, for as long as he could remember.

When he had been very young, he had been known to boast that water simply couldn't be too hot to suit him.

He didn't boast of that any more.

Not since the Chi-Asqi had intervened, and taught him a lesson that he should not have learned at such a tender age. 

_He had been fifteen; he had almost died._

_These were not good memories, not because of what the alien race - amphibian, cold-blooded, native to the rim world of Floomorni - had done to him, although those memories were certainly not fond; no, the memories that disturbed him most, in that whole horrible mess, were those of the face of his Master as he had realized what the natives had done to his apprentice._

_Obi-Wan, though barely alive at that moment, had struggled to reach full consciousness as he read the look in Qui-Gon's eyes, as he recognized a rage so deep and so all-consuming that it threatened to overwhelm every vestige of Jedi restraint, and destroy an entire race of sentients._

_They had submerged his nude, broken body in boiling mud, for no reason other than that they could, and they wished to learn how a Force manipulator would react to such pain._

_The answer, as he recalled, had been, not very well, for he had lost his grasp on the Force fairly quickly, having already called on it repeatedly during the days prior to the final event, to augment his ability to function in spite of a number of minor wounds and a couple of fairly major ones, including cracked ribs and a broken wrist._

_Not to put too fine a point on it, he had howled like a wild thing, surprising even himself with the raw power of his shrieks._

_Later, he had time to wonder if the volume of his screams had been his last ditch effort to reach his Master. At the time, he had more than half believed Qui-Gon dead, since he had been unable to touch him through their training bond, and he had known, beyond all doubt, that, if the Master were alive, he would have come for his padawan, no matter what obstacles might have been put in his way._

_What he had not known was that the cave-like warren in which he had been held was composed of a dried clay containing a strange, metallic element which effectively shielded Force signatures against probing minds._

_Qui-Gon had been searching for days, frantic with worry and growing frustration. Only when the apprentice had been removed from the shelter of the compound, and brought to the exposed area of the boiling mud pit, had the Master been able to detect him, but, by that time, Obi-Wan had simply stopped reaching, accepting that the continued effort was futile._

_Thus the lesson he had learned had been two-fold: that futility was then, and often is, in the eye of the beholder; and that Jedi Masters can, under certain circumstances, become just as psychotic - and dangerous - as anyone else._

_Qui-Gon, by the grace of the Force, had not been far away and had reached him in a matter of minutes, but it had still been a near thing._

_When pulled from the boiling pit, the apprentice had already suffered third-degree burns over eighty percent of his body, and there were grave concerns that, even if he survived the horrible trauma overall, he would never see or hear or speak again; that, indeed, he might succumb to the unbelievable agony of his traumatized flesh to such a degree that he would simply abdicate possession of his mind, and choose to live out whatever remained of his existence in a perpetual twilight state, removed from life, but safe from the unbelievable level of pain that raged in his body._

_Nevertheless, when Qui-Gon had jerked him free of the viscous lava-like substance that was consuming him, sustaining his own serious burns in the process, Obi-Wan had retained sufficient awareness to see and understand the murderous rage in his Master's eyes; to note that all of the Chi-Asqi who had gathered to watch his ordeal lay dead around the perimeter of the boiling pit; to realize that the Jedi standing nearby, waiting to help get him aboard the rescue ship and fly him back to the Temple for treatment, were watching Qui-Gon with undisguised expressions of terror and revulsion._

_It had taken everything he had; his very last ounce of strength. And he had believed, at that moment, that it would literally be his last ounce._

_But he had managed it. Three whispered, agonized words._

_"Master, please don't."_

_He could not have explained it any better than that, and he had then lapsed into unconsciousness, without knowing if Qui-Gon had understood him, or would listen, even if he had._

_He should have known better._

_He had been in a bacta tank for eleven days, a new record, they had told him later, and seemed surprised when he remained decidedly unimpressed._

_His Master, of course, had been at his side when he had awakened, and had stayed there, despite the padawan's protests and attempts to send him back to their quarters to rest._

_But, though he had never admitted it, he had been grateful for Qui-Gon's presence during that long recovery, for it had been (and he hoped always would be) the single most painful experience of his life. Even Force-healing had proven only partially effective in easing his agony, and the drugs they poured into his system served only to aggravate the problem, for while they did blunt the pain somewhat, they also interfered with his grasp of the Force, which was the only thing holding the worst of the torment at bay._

_In the end, it was Qui-Gon who was most effective in relieving the apprentice's suffering; Qui-Gon who extended a protective shield around his padawan, and simply dared anything to get through it, including the boy's own pain. It was not totally effective; in truth, nothing could have been._

_But it was enough to allow the boy to survive, with his sanity intact._

_Without it, Obi-Wan had believed - and still did - he would have lost his connection to reality._

_It had taken almost two months to recover sufficiently to be allowed to return to their quarters; two months of intense suffering, terrible pain, constant fear of the future, and monumental determination to recover all that he had lost. Determination that arose from two separate sources: Master and apprentice. Neither was willing to concede any possibility of failure, though there had been a few moments, when a body so horribly abused had threatened to rebel and simply refuse to make any further effort to get back what had been so cruelly stolen away._

_At those moments, Obi-Wan had expected his Master to react with anger and condemnation. He had been stunned when Qui-Gon had simply knelt beside him and held him and wiped away his tears with gentle, loving fingers._

_"Together, my Obi-Wan," he had whispered. "There is nothing we cannot do, together."_

_And, in the end, it had proven true. It had taken a total of almost five months of intense rehabilitation, multiple surgeries, endless bacta treatments, and unflagging dedication, but he had ultimately recovered completely._

_On the last day, the day when the healers had finally backed away and pronounced him healed, he had turned to his Master, and finally asked what he had not dared to ask during all those long months._

_"What did you do to them, Master?"_

_Qui-Gon had not even pretended to misunderstand. "I wanted to kill them all, but I didn't."_

_"You didn't?"_

_His Master had smiled - the rare, gentle smile that Obi-Wan loved so much - and reached out to stroke the silkiness of the padawan braid. "I walked away, for you, Padawan mine."_

_In relief, in reaction to a dread he had not even realized he was harboring, the apprentice had gone to his knees, tears blinding him, choking him. Qui-Gon had knelt with him, and simply cradled the youth against his big chest, needing no explanation._

_Obi-Wan could not remember ever having felt more loved - or more secure._

He opened his eyes abruptly, and realized that the water had grown cool. 

As had the memory.

He tried not to think about it any further; tried to banish it from his thoughts, as he rose and reached for a towel.

The memory was accurate, but his judgment, apparently, had not been.

He didn't know now what it was that his Master had felt when he knelt to cradle his padawan as he wept. He only knew what it wasn't.

Love, he believed, did not die. And if it didn't exist now, it hadn't existed then either.

He looked up and caught a distorted glimpse of himself in a steamy mirror, and surprised himself into a rueful smile by speaking aloud.

"The worst lie of all is the one you tell yourself. So when did you start, Kenobi? What's the last thing you remember that you know to be true?"

He frowned as he realized that he had no idea how to answer that question.

************************ ************** ********************

Meditation wasn't coming easily these days. He suppressed a sigh and tried again - and sighed again.

The Force was there for him, as it always was, but it seemed to be teasing him, dancing just beyond his reach, taunting him to get up - and follow.

OK. He would get up and follow and see where it led him.

He almost groaned when he realized what lay ahead of him but then he squared his shoulders and strode forward with just a trace of the strut that generally characterized his walk. He was a Jedi, or so he had been told. He would not cringe away from anything.

Including the sight of Ramal Dyprio wielding an ignited lightsaber.

The Jedi Master grinned, and it was not a reassuring sight.

But, to his surprise, the Master deactivated his saber, and bowed to his apprentice.

"I leave you in capable hands, Little One," said Dyprio, still grinning.

"Wait!" snapped Ciara. "You're leaving?"

The Master turned a withering glare on his padawan, who withered appropriately. "Unlike your new sparring partner, Padawan, I have reports to prepare for the Council. Reports, I might add, which need to be submitted immediately, if we are to be of any help to the Drimulans."

She nodded, cheeks stained crimson. "Of course, Master. I'm sorry for my thoughtlessness and my insolence."

Dyprio chuckled softly. "It's your insolence that warms my heart, Child." And he turned dark, laughing eyes toward the friend of her childhood. "Besides, I know exactly where that trait came from."

With a grin of his own, Obi-Wan bowed slightly.

"Padawan Kenobi," said the Master sternly, obviously daring the boy to challenge the title, "I perceive that a few hours of saber practice would benefit you as well as my padawan. Would you care to participate?"

Now it was Obi-Wan's turn to allow a predator's grin to touch his face. "Thank you, Master Ramal. I do feel the need to work out some frustrations, so I'd be delighted."

"Oh, sh - um, drat!" muttered Ciara. "Lucky me."

But Ramal had seen the slight symptoms of unreleased anger in the young Jedi, and decided that he didn't want to see it vented against his padawan, although he himself might take a crack at it later. So he did what all Masters are supposed to do; he intervened to defuse a potential problem before it could happen.

"I think," he said firmly, "that both of you should stick to katas today. Start with the fourth, and work up to the tenth. That should keep you occupied for a couple of hours."

"Occupied?" echoed Obi-Wan, somehow bothered by the use of that word.

"Safely engaged," said Ramal. "And when you're done with that, if you're still feeling frisky . . . .

Obi-Wan and Ciara exchanged glances. _Frisky?_

". . . .you can try the Wind and Water kata."

Now both young people grinned. The Wind and Water was a favorite of both, though they had never performed it together. It was more frequently done by Master and apprentice. Obi-Wan absolutely refused to dwell on the memory of the last time he had performed it; of the certainty he had felt in knowing that the performance had been completely, beautifully flawless.

He would perform it today, flawlessly. He saw the same determination rise in Ciara's eyes. The two of them did not have a training bond, but they had enjoyed the bond of friendship for over fifteen years, and that should be enough.

"I'll be back later to check on your progress," said Master Dyprio, a small smile dancing in his eyes.

They would be safely occupied, he knew. The additional stimulus of the Wind and Water would insure it, and the honor code that bound all Jedi padawans - even those no longer officially bound to it - would assure that they completed all the preliminary katas he had assigned before going on to the main event.

Time enough.

He was headed for Fer'mia's private office when he felt a small vibration in the ship, and a similar vibration in his mind.

With some small sense of regret for the necessity for subterfuge, he reinforced the Force shield he had erected around the cargo bay where he had left his apprentice and her childhood friend.

Even with the shield, he wasn't sure his efforts would be successful. The Force signature he sought to mask was extremely powerful, and the Force user he sought to mask it from was extremely intuitive.

He sighed, and decided that worrying about it was useless. He had done all that could be done.

He must trust in the Force to take over from here.

***************** *************** ****************** 

The _Lady Ghost_ was impressive, even by sophisticated standards. It was obvious that she was run under strict military guidelines - at least, during those times when she must function as a military ship.

Subtle hints, mostly in the demeanor of various crew members, seemed to indicate that the discipline of the service might not apply when she reverted to civilian status.

She was quite well-designed and quite spacious, despite the fact that he had to duck his head a few times to avoid collisions with the tops of hatches and low-hanging (from his perspective) obstacles.

The woman who preceded him through the ship was almost as tall as he was, and she seemed to know, instinctively, when to duck, and when to stand tall.

It did not require Force sensitivity to realize that she disliked him intensely. Her resentment was sheeting off her in waves.

She pushed open the door to the captain's quarters, and stood aside.

He stepped through the doorway and was impaled by gray-green eyes as sharp as daggers, and just as friendly.

"Captain Fer'mia," he said softly, non-committal to the end.

"Master Jinn." The captain remained motionless, giving nothing away.

Qui-Gon looked at the two other occupants of the room, a small figure, heavily armored and helmeted, and Ramal Dyprio, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. Dyprio's only greeting was a brief nod; there was no warmth in his eyes.

The woman who had escorted him through the ship stepped through the door and closed it behind her.

For a few moments, there was only a strained silence, and Qui-Gon noted that Dyprio made no attempt to stifle a small sardonic smile.

"I notice," said Fer'mia finally, "that you're not asking if he's here."

Qui-Gon's face softened briefly. "Did you think to conceal him, Captain? For let me assure you that it would be impossible."

"The shielding," said Master Dyprio softly, "is to try to keep him from noticing your presence. It won't work for long, of course. And it wouldn't work at all if he weren't distracted, for the moment. But it should give us a little time."

"Time for what?" asked Qui-Gon. "I don't understand."

"Time," said Fer'mia firmly, "for you to make your pitch."

"My pitch?" Qui-Gon was obviously confused.

The Drimulan rose abruptly and, for the first time, allowed a vein of anger to flare in his eyes. He moved forward to confront the towering Jedi Master, but, if he had hoped to intimidate the man, he was doomed to disappointment, which didn't really surprise him. He might not like what he knew of how this Jedi had treated the boy entrusted to his care, but the entire galaxy, for the most part, knew the name of Qui-Gon Jinn, and knew what kind of Jedi he was.

There would be no backing down, on either side of this confrontation.

"You want him back," said Fer'mia finally, "and I want to keep him. So convince me. Why should I let you have him?"

The Jedi turned slightly to look at Ramal Dyprio, but there was nothing to be seen in the swarthy Corellian's face, besides polite interest.

"I think you're suffering under a misconception, Captain," said Qui-Gon, still speaking in that velvet baritone that had always served him so well in his diplomatic endeavors.

"Oh," said the captain, nodding slightly, "a misconception? And what misconception would that be?"

"That the choice in this situation is yours."

Fer'mia moved back to his desk, and flopped bonelessly into his chair. "I suppose you think it's yours," he replied, very reasonably.

And Jinn surprised him. "No, actually. I don't."

And a frisson of unease touched the Drimulan's back. "So who gets to choose?"

"Come now, Captain," said the Jedi softly. "Why play these games? The choice is Obi-Wan's. You know that."

"Yes, I suppose I do. But that doesn't mean that he'll be allowed a fair choice. It also doesn't mean I have to allow you to speak to him."

The tall Master suppressed a sigh. He was weary beyond belief, and he had not slept in days. Still, he held on to his patience, though it was wearing thin. "Captain, if I wish to contact him, there isn't a force in this galaxy that could prevent it. You may ask Master Ramal to confirm that, if you doubt me."

Fer'mia glanced toward the Corellian Jedi, who simply nodded.

The Drimulan sighed, and rubbed his eyes wearily. "I want to be convinced, Master Jedi. Shall we be completely honest here and lay everything out?"

"By all means," replied Qui-Gon. "It would save a great deal of time."

"Good." Fer'mia rose again, and moved to stand at the viewport to gaze out into the maelstrom. "I don't want to let you take him, Jinn. I don't think you deserve to have him."

He spun back to face the Jedi Master, and his eyes had gone cold - glacial. "I saw what you did to him. Saw the hurt in that innocent kid. And now, I see, every day, what he is. What he does. I see him give himself, to try to reach out and help anyone who needs it. I look at him and see nothing but loyalty and honesty and courage. I've known a lot of good people, Jinn, the very best, some of them, but I don't know anyone else as unselfish - as noble - as that kid. And underneath all that pure spirit, I see how he hurts. How he doubts himself, because of what you did to him. Because he can't stand to admit that you might be wrong, so it must be him. _He_ must be the problem."

His hands clinched suddenly into fists. "You threw him away, and we took him in. He has a place with us, forever, if he wants it, and I can promise you that we will never, _never_ forget what he is, or what he risked for us. We will never throw him away."

He leaned forward, thrusting his face into the personal space of the Jedi Master, almost begging to be pushed away. "Now you tell me, Master Jedi. In the face of all that, why should I let you take him away from here? From us?"

Qui-Gon had not moved nor reacted during the Drimulan's tirade. Now he simply regarded the captain with sympathetic eyes. "Because he'll die out here."

Fer'mia almost gasped, his breath trying to freeze in his throat. "What?"

"He'll die out here, Captain," Qui-Gon repeated, "and, if you look in your heart, you know it's true."

"What makes you so certain?" The question came from the Corellian female, who was looking at him as if he were some kind of distasteful smear on a microscope slide.

"I know my Obi-Wan," he said simply. "Better than any of you here can ever hope to know him."

"Yeah," she spat back at him. "You know him so well that you accused him of killing a child."

He closed his eyes briefly. "There is nothing that you can say to me, no accusation you can level, that I haven't already leveled at myself. I make no excuses for my actions, and I fully expect to pay for them. But all of that is unimportant. I tell you, I know Obi-Wan, and I know what he's doing. You're correct in saying that he doubts himself; and you're correct in saying that it's because of my actions. But, whatever the reason, Obi-Wan will be true to who he is. He will prove himself, and he will die in the attempt. It's what he wants; it's why he's here."

"But . . ." A gleam of stubbornness rose in the woman's eyes.

"Please," said Qui-Gon wearily, "I don't wish to argue with you. I tell you only what I know. And what I know, is that he has spent his entire life training to be a Jedi; he now believes that dream is gone, and his reason to exist, gone with it. I know you have no reason to trust in what I tell you, but I must, nevertheless, ask you to do so. He will die out here."

Arain Fer'mia cleared his throat and turned back to stare out into space. "And what do you care, Master Jinn? You've made it pretty clear that he means little to you, so what do you care if he dies?"

"I do not wish to see an innocent man suffer for something he did not do." The words were correct, but cold.

"Is that all?" asked Fer'mia, turning back to face him. "Salving your conscience? Is that all?"

For a while there was only silence, until Ramal Dyprio straightened, and moved forward, coming to a stop directly in front of his counterpart.

"Tell them," he said firmly.

"I don't think . . ."

"Don't think," insisted Dyprio. "Just say it."

But the habits of a lifetime die only very slowly.

Qui-Gon could only stand mute and dry-eyed.

"You will lose him," said Master Ramal clearly, "if you can't even say it."

"I . . . love him. Without him, my life is barren, meaningless."

"And you've only just discovered this?" demanded Fer'mia. "How convenient!"

Qui-Gon turned to face the Drimulan, and, for the first time, allowed the desolation within him to fill his eyes. "You have no reason to believe me, Captain. And neither does he. But I swear to you that I have finally, finally opened my eyes, and seen what has been right in front of me for so many years. I have been a stubborn fool, and it has cost me the most precious thing in my life."

Fer'mia was still angry, and not loathe to display it. "So now we're supposed to just turn him over to you, to forgive everything you did to him."

"Captain," said the distraught Jedi Master, "forgive me, but the forgiveness is not yours to give, or to withhold. It's Obi-Wan's. And I know that you couldn't care less about my feelings in all this. I don't blame you. But you are ignoring the true heart of the matter, the true reason I am here, the one thing I have said to you that does matter, above all."

"And that would be?"

To the astonishment of everyone in the cabin, the towering Jedi went to his knees at the feet of the Drimulan captain. "That he will die out here. I don't care if you hate me. I don't care if you doubt my motives. I don't care about anything, except one thing. Obi-Wan must not be allowed to throw his life away. That is all I ask of you, that you not stand in the way of his returning to me, for that is the only way to save him. Please, Captain."

Fer'mia had gone still and pale as he gazed down into midnight eyes so filled with anguish that it was painful to behold. "He won't go with you, you know," he said finally. 

Qui-Gon allowed himself a small sigh. "Yes, he will."

"You rejected him," snapped the Corellian woman. "You tossed him aside and accused him of horrible things. Why would he go with you?"

The Jedi Master did not pretend that he felt no shame with his answer, but he gave it any way. "Because I need him."

Fer'mia almost laughed. "And you think that's enough? After what you did to him? You think he'll just come back to you?"

There was a sudden sigh from Ramal Dyprio, as he turned to look at the Drimulan captain. "He's right."

Fer'mia stared at the swarthy Jedi, whom he had grown to respect in recent days. "That's crazy, Master Ramal."

Dyprio nodded. "Crazy, indeed, Captain. But it's true. No one else could coax him back, but he'll come - for his Master."

"You know," said Fer'mia bitterly, "you people really need to think about adopting some new terminology. 'Masters' are what slaves have."

Qui-Gon Jinn looked over at Ramal Dyprio, and smiled thinly. "Bet that hurt, didn't it?"

Dyprio almost groaned. "You have no idea."

 

**************** **************** *******************

 

Master Dyprio had specified that they should go through all the selected katas before attempting the Wind and Water, but he had not specified at what speed, or how thoroughly. Katas four through ten, therefore, got short shrift, in order to get to Wind and Water.

Obi-Wan looked down at Ciara, as they assumed the starting position and grinned. They could do this; they both knew it, and it would be beautiful. Which would be nice, because they had attracted quite an audience by this time. Even the engine room rats, as the crew insisted on calling them, had ventured out of their hidey-holes, and crept in to observe.

 _Ready?_ He extended his arm, until just the tip of his index finger met the tip of hers.

_Ready - and don't goof us up, Pretty Boy._

He smiled. _Just watch your big feet, Funny Face._

Neither really decided to begin; the Force decided for them, as both opened themselves, and submerged themselves in its warmth.

There was no music, of course, but there could have been, and they'd have been in perfect time with it.

The first quarter of the kata was delicately done, the barest trace of zephyr for wind, faint ripples beneath the surface of a still lake, for water, requiring only the most fleeting of touches between the participants, hands skimming, arms shadowing, legs interweaving without ever touching; it was flawless, and the Force sang around and through and between and within them. The second quarter was more forceful - a metaphor for the change of seasons, with steady gales heralding huge fronts of moving air for wind, and massive tidal surges, reflecting timeless progressions for water, with less finesse and more strength, as they used each other's power and leverage to cartwheel into the air, to leap and twist and propel themselves in perfect point/counterpoint; the third quarter combined much of the previous two, reflecting the quick, random violence of fast-breaking storms for wind - and the mad dance of storm-tossed seas and mountainous breakers for water, and it was the most difficult of all, requiring perfect control, delicate balance, as well as sheer strength. The audience, by this time, was mesmerized; lost in the sheer beauty of the movements, and the sheer impossibility of the form.

And the Force sang with the harmony of it, and caressed their strong, young bodies.

It was as the fourth quarter began, the saber dance, in which wind and water became one, in a cyclonic progression, that something inserted itself between them and disrupted the brilliant flow of the Force.

Obi-Wan staggered, and managed - barely - to withdraw his ignited light saber from the place where Ciara landed only mini-seconds later; she was not so successful, inflicting a minor, but painful burn on the back of his arm.

"Obi!" she cried, all color draining from her face. "What are you . . ."

And then she saw his eyes and could decipher nothing in them, except a huge, aching emptiness.

He did not speak. He simply turned and ran.

And ran - through the corridors of the beautiful ship. 

And ran - up the companionways, from deck to deck.

And ran - and fetched up finally at his destination.

He did not knock, nor wait for permission to enter.

He simply walked in and found, suddenly, that his knees would no longer hold him erect.

He went down hard as he closed his eyes, not believing, not even thinking.

And found himself suddenly, inexplicably, enfolded in a warmth he had thought never to experience again; assailed by a fragrance he had willed himself to forget; stroked by a touch achingly familiar, but no longer relevant in his reality.

"Obi-Wan," said that velvet voice, "I've come to take you home."

With a herculean effort, the young Jedi pushed himself to his feet and raised his head to face the man who had been the heart of his existence for most of his life. "Is that it then?" he said abruptly. 

Qui-Gon was silent, not sure how best to respond.

"You open your arms, and all is forgiven? Is that it?"

"Obi-Wan . . ."

"Stop!" said the young Jedi, holding his hand up and backing away. "Just stop."

"I can't . . ."

The young man raised his head quickly, and there was no way of avoiding the agony in the depths of blue-green eyes. "How could you, Master? I don't understand it; I never understood it. How could you think . . ."

"Obi-Wan, please. We need to go home, to . . ."

"No."

"What?"

"I said, no," said Obi-Wan. "I have no home. You made sure of that."

Master Jinn, thinking perhaps that a firmer stance was needed, folded his arms. "Padawan, we will return to the Temple."

And got a roundhouse fist in the face for his trouble and a busted lip. "Don't you dare," shouted the boy, tears standing in his eyes now. "Don't you dare call me that. You left me. You threw me away, like garbage. Don't you dare!"

And with a gasp that might just as well have been a sob, he was gone, bolting through the door and down the corridor at Force enhanced speed.

"Well," said Ramal Dyprio, after a few silent moments, "that could certainly have gone better."

Qui-Gon Jinn touched his mouth with his knuckles, and stared at the blood on his hand. "He struck me," he said, obviously dumbstruck.

"Yes, he did," replied Dyprio dryly. "Bet it smarted, too. Didn't it?"

Jinn simply nodded, and Dyprio leaned forward to be sure the tall Master was looking directly into his eyes. "Now you get some tiny little inkling of what he felt, when you did it to him. Only _he_ didn't have it coming."

******************* ******************** *****************  
tbc


	27. Where Winds Die

Chapter 27: Where Winds Die

_Pilgrim, how you journey_  
 _On the road you chose_  
 _To find out where the winds die_  
 _And where the stories go_.  
 _All days come from one day_  
 _That much you must know,_  
 _You cannot change what's over_  
 _But only where you go._

\- Enya - - - _Pilgrim_

 

It was only by virtue of Force enhancement that the Jedi Master managed to hurl himself through the closing entry hatch of the _Morning Angel_ before she leapt from the _Lady Ghost_ 's shuttle deck, rotated smartly, and streaked through the oily distortion of the restraining force field with a snarl not unlike that of some great prehistoric beast.

There was no question of Fer'mia's ship following the _Angel_ through the corridor entrance to Haven; indeed, nothing could have kept pace with that mad plunge through the maelstrom, and no sane captain would have even tried. The fact that the young Jedi's vessel survived the journey was due more to the advanced quality of her design and her technology than to any skills of her pilot. In truth, he barely knew where he had been, or where he was going. He only knew that he must, for this moment, be somewhere else, somewhere where _he_ was not.

Haven lay ahead of him, pristine against the cyclonic violence of celestial birthing pains. He simply stared at the bright sphere, the tracks of dried tears tight around his eyes.

He could not, yet, simply return to the mundane patterns of existence, the new existence he had only just begun to build. He needed time - to think, to ponder, to reinforce his determination. He needed . . . the pain that swept through him was almost physical. He just . . . needed.

"You know," said a voice behind him, sending him leaping to his feet and reaching for his lightsaber, "if I were a Sith lord, you'd be a dead man."

Obi-Wan waited for a moment, to give his heart time to crawl down out of his throat, before taking a deep breath and regarding Ramal Dyprio with something less than a welcoming gaze. "What are you doing here?"

Master Ramal allowed his eyes to dart toward the paristeel canopy for just a fleeting second, a moot comment on the erratic nature of their passage, before smiling. "Developing a new respect for the blessings of Lady Luck."

"You shouldn't have come after me." The words were harsh, cold, brittle. Almost without inflection.

Dyprio simply shrugged. "Don't mind me. Just consider me part of the furniture."

Young Kenobi turned back to the helm, and programmed landing co-ordinates. "Furniture doesn't talk." He paused for a moment, before continuing. "But I must beg your pardon, Master Ramal. My focus was . . ."

"Non-existent?" Ramal suggested gently. "Don't apologize for that. If I, as a Jedi Master, can't mask my presence from a padawan learner, no matter how gifted, I need to find a new job."

"Gifted," Obi-Wan echoed with heavy sarcasm. "Yeah. Sure."

The Master frowned. "You doubt your gifts, Padawan?" 

Obi-Wan sighed, and closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead with trembling fingers. It was a curiously childlike gesture, and Ramal Dyprio was careful to conceal the tender regard it raised in him beneath a mask of disinterest. "Why did you come after me?" said the ex-padawan finally, ignoring the Master's question. Dyprio, of course, realized immediately that the young man really didn't much care about his reasons for tagging along; the question was only a prelude to the complaint the boy wanted to voice, but couldn't, quite.

"I thought you might need a body nearby."

"A body? For what?"

Again, the shrug. "For whatever. To talk to, or to ignore. To walk with, or to leave behind. To scream at, or to pout at, or just to have around. Just in case."

Blue-green eyes flashed with resentment. "Are you going to try to talk me into going back with him?"

"No. I'm not."

Obi-Wan studied the swarthy Master suspiciously. "Good," he said finally. "You'd be wasting your breath."

"Fine."

The young Jedi turned back to the helm, and gazed down at the planet now rushing up to meet them, a faint vibration in the _Angel_ 's hull attesting to the veils of atmosphere now sheeting off her shields.

"I'm not landing at the spaceport, either," he said firmly, "so if you have someplace to be, you're going to be late."

The Corellian sank into the co-pilot's seat with rangy grace and smiled at the rush engendered by the images careening toward him through the canopy. For a moment, he was grateful that he had had the foresight, earlier, before announcing his presence, to take a subtle measure of young Kenobi's emotional state, a measure which had confirmed that the boy was enormously troubled and massively confused, but not suicidal.

"Excellent. I always enjoy a little spontaneity," he replied sardonically.

Obi-Wan was startled into a quick bark of laughter. "I meant to be alone."

"You will be. Alone, with me somewhere around."

Sea-change eyes darkened, almost smoldered. "You don't trust me. Do you?"

Dyprio was obviously surprised by the question. Sufficiently surprised that he wasn't quite quick enough to hide the tender glow in his sable eyes. "On the contrary, young padawan. I trust you implicitly. But there may be aspects of this whole situation that you have not yet considered. Questions you may need to ask. That's why I'm here, and it's the only reason I'm here. I will not pressure you to act, one way or another. You have my word on that."

Obi-Wan's initial response was a quick glance from beneath lowered lashes. Then he turned away to land his ship. "You shouldn't call me that," he said, almost too softly to be heard. "I'm a learner no more."

Ramal Dyprio turned to study the young man's profile, and waited patiently until luminous blue-green eyes rose to meet his own. "We're all learners, Obi-Wan. Every day of our lives. Some lessons come easy, and quickly. Others . . . take a lifetime."

Obi-Wan smiled. "You're being cryptic. I hate it when Masters get cryptic; it always means that there's something I'm supposed to figure out for myself."

Dyprio chuckled softly. "OK, I'm busted. But, of course, you really don't have to figure out anything, if you don't want to. The discipline of the Order can't demand anything of you any more, unless you choose to let it."

A very soft thump announced their landing, and the Corellian Master glanced out through the canopy to see a vista that, for many sentient beings, might have defined paradise, a broad beach of rosy crystal sand, trembling under the assault of foam-crested breakers rolling in from a sea of turquoise and sapphire and amethyst, all surrounded by thick, verdant vegetation drooping under the weight of cascading blossoms of carmine and topaz and glowing violet. The day was spilling over into evening now, and the sun was poised to take its final plunge, apparently eager to bury itself in the seductive depths of an amazing crystalline purity; the celestial chaos, through which Haven circled endlessly, would assure that the day's passage would provide a breathtaking spectacle .

Obi-Wan almost leapt to his feet. "In that case," he said abruptly, not quite meeting the Master's eyes, "I choose not to." 

*************** *********************** *********************

The lovely, streamlined ship nestled in a small semi-circle of open ground, at the point where a narrow spit of sand joined the broader expanse of curving shoreline, her graceful silhouette somehow blending in perfect harmony with the beauty of the natural setting. 

Shadows obscured the deep forest that surrounded the beach, and the blooms that adorned every bush and tree seemed to emit a pale light in the dim surrealism of dusk, as Ramal Dyprio made his way down the boarding ramp and settled himself comfortably on a small ridge of obsidian stone that had thrust its way up through the sand some millennia ago. He smiled indulgently as he watched young Kenobi sprinting down the extended sandbar, after having discarded boots and cumbersome clothing. Clad only in leggings and a thin undertunic, the boy stopped at the very edge of the surf's hungry curl, and threw his hands up over his head, as if in celebration.

"Wait for it," he called. "Wait for it." But he didn't bother to explain what 'it' might be.

Dyprio decided, however, that he had nothing more pressing to do, so he would, indeed, wait for 'it'. 

As the last fiery lip of the sun's disk slipped into oblivion, he had reason to be very glad he had done so, for a pure, sweet radiance, tinted soft gold shading just slightly into acid green, flared from that moment of extinction and swept from horizon to horizon, rich and harmonic with the living Force and brilliant with bioluminescence.

Ramal Dyprio laughed, and heard it echoed from the young man standing at the water's edge.

"What was it?" he called, finding that the weariness he had experienced earlier was no more now than a memory.

Obi-Wan shrugged. "I don't really know. I don't think I want to know."

Dyprio thought about it for a moment, then grinned. "The science won't make it any sweeter."

Even at this distance, and in light now faded almost to black, Dyprio could tell that his words had surprised the young man, but he ventured no response. Instead, he simply turned back to the sea, and stood in silence, absorbing the tranquility around him and allowing it to soothe and stroke him, and wrap him in tendrils of Force-blessed warmth.

When full darkness was upon him, he turned and walked back toward the shore, making slow progress as he stopped periodically to gather an armful of driftwood. 

Ramal Dyprio was content to bask in the sensation of being welcomed and cherished by the energy that was so intense around them that it was almost visible, and he watched young Kenobi move toward him, sensing that, although the boy would probably not admit it, he was nevertheless not too terribly upset that he was not alone in the darkness.

And the darkness was not as dark as it might have been, though the Jedi Master was, for some reason, slow to realize why.

At first, he almost believed that he was suffering from some kind of bizarre optical illusion, something almost unprecedented for a Jedi, but it seemed a trifle foolish to concede that young Kenobi's footsteps were generating low clouds of glittering brilliance, flashing scarlet and emerald and bright azure.

At almost the same moment as the Jedi Master realized that he was not imagining things, Obi-Wan himself became aware of the rainbow-hued sparkle eddying around his knees.

He looked up and met the Master's eyes, and both seemed slightly subdued, and touched by the wonders that the Force seemed to delight in providing, at the most unexpected moments.

Master Dyprio rose and moved forward, joining the young Jedi on the narrow finger of sand, but no swirl of multi-colored flashes rose around his boots, even when he stood almost toe to toe with the boy.

Master Ramal smiled. "Must be your magnetic personality," he said softly.

But Obi-Wan was shaking his head as he gazed down at the infinitesimal bits of light, still dancing around him. "No, Master," he replied, and, grabbing Ramal's hand, brought them both to their knees. He then pressed the Corellian's palm to the sand, and an explosion of brightness burst around it.

"They're responding to bare skin," he said softly, flashes of lilting color reflecting in the luminous depths of his eyes. "The warmth, maybe, or some kind of bio-electric or bio-chemical energy."

"I've never seen anything like this," observed the Jedi Master. "They're alive, and the Force seems to . . ."

Obi-Wan laughed. "It's dancing in them. I can feel it, against my skin. And here." He pressed a finger to his temple and a hand to his heart. "They're so . . ."

"Beautiful," said Ramal Dyprio, finishing the sentence without even the necessity for conscious thought.

"Yes." Obi-Wan closed his eyes, and allowed the life essence of these tiny, almost elemental beings to wash through him. And found that he could still see them, through the Force and its joy in their existence. "And happy. So wonderfully happy." 

The Jedi Master took the opportunity to study that exquisite young face, illuminated now by the reflections of tiny radiant lifeforms, and saw the deep, abiding weariness that smothered the boy beneath its weight, and the dark clouds of bitterness that threatened to consume the clarity buried so deeply within him. He debated then, speaking the onerous words that trembled on his lips, but something told him to wait. To bide his time, and put his trust in the Force. Although, he knew, somehow, that some tragic specter might yet raise its head in this lovely garden, and that the final choice - to either embrace the dark bloom of misery, or to reject it - would ultimately not be his to make.

Obi-Wan seemed to shake himself briefly, and to regain a measure of insouciance as he rose and moved off to assemble a small fire at the edge of the beach, just beyond the scattered meringue of the breakers. A small hole scooped out in the sand, a jumble of old, weathered wood, a spark of Force energy, and the blaze soared and snapped and bathed the young Jedi's face in liquid gold, as he sat cross-legged at the edge of the circle of light.

After a few moments of observing the charming tableau, the Corellian elected to seat himself across from the youth, and wait.

It was quite some time before the waiting bore fruit, before the Master looked up from the flames which had begun to diminish and saw the trails of wetness that flowed unbroken and unheeded down the younger man's face.

"All I am," said Obi-Wan, in a small, desperate voice, "he made me. I don't know what there is in me, that is really _me_."

Dyprio took his time in replying, choosing his words carefully. "No, Obi-Wan. It wasn't within his power to 'make' you anything. He could only mold what was already there."

But Obi-Wan was shaking his head, an unexpected stubbornness flaring in his eyes. "No. You don't know, because Ciara wasn't like me. He . . . poured me out - emptied me - picked over everything I was and threw away what wasn't suitable. What he put back was just what he decided to use, to rebuild me."

Ramal Dyprio was forced to pause, to take a deep breath, and to call on every ounce of control he possessed to force down the swelling cloud of rage that threatened to overwhelm him. By all the gods, what had that arrogant, black-hearted fool done to this child? And how could anyone hope to cut through the layer-upon-layer of uncertainty in which the boy had been immersed?

"Is that what he told you?" the Master asked finally, striving for dispassionate equanimity, but not quite reaching it.

Luminous eyes gazed into the flames, but saw something else, something dredged from memory. "No. He would never have admitted it, but it's what he did."

"And why do you think he did that, Obi-Wan?"

"I was flawed, Master Ramal. Filled with anger and resentment and insolence - always out to prove that I was better than everyone else, that I was smarter, and stronger, and just . . . better." The boy's voice was harsh, coarse with strangled emotion. "He had no choice."

But Ramal Dyprio decided, suddenly, that he _did_ have a choice, and it was time to exercise it.

"Obi-Wan," he said softly, firmly, "that's pure, unadulterated nonsense. And it's about time somebody told you the bald truth."

The young man looked as if he'd suddenly been bitten by a butterfly. "What do you mean?"

"Obi," said Dyprio, moving forward until the two of them were virtually knee-to-knee, "I'm Corellian, you know, and I wasn't raised in the Temple. On Corellia, we do it a little differently. We tend to concentrate more on the practical applications of our knowledge, and less on philosophy and theory. We tend more to pragmatism than to continuous introspection. But you already know all that, don't you?'

"Yes, Master, but I don't . . ."

"We also put a lot more emphasis on personal relationships, even family interactions. Did you know, for example, that I was raised by my own parents? They were Jedi, as were their parents before them."

A small gleam of interest threaded through the abject misery in shadowed eyes. "That I didn't know."

The Corellian nodded. "Well, guess what, young padawan. There are a number of other things that you don't know, but you're going to learn as we go along. But there's really only one thing that's at the top of the list, that you need to know first."

The Master leaned forward and grasped the younger man's hands in a firm grip. "I need you to listen to me, Obi. Really listen, and hear. And know that what I am saying to you is absolute truth. Can you do that?"

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to say that he'd try, but he quickly saw the flash of humor in Dyprio's sable eyes, and swallowed the words. "Yes, Master Ramal."

The humor sparked a grin. "Better, padawan. Now listen to me, and recognize truth when you hear it. There is not now, nor was there ever, anything wrong with you. You were not 'poured out and picked over', and it was horribly wrong that you were allowed to believe that you were. No man is perfect, Obi-Wan." He raised a restraining hand as he saw the protest rise in the boy's face. "No man is perfect, and neither is any child. But you have been, since the day you came to the Temple, a child of almost perfect light. And to allow you to be damaged by shadows of a past you had no part in was wrong, Obi-Wan. _He_ was wrong."

Obi-Wan tried to jerk himself free of the Master's grip, but Dyprio was not finished, and he had no intention of allowing the boy to free himself. Not yet. "I know that hurts you; I know that, despite everything, you still believe him incapable of making a mistake. But you're wrong, padawan, just as he was. I won't deny that it's because of what happened with his last apprentice. Xanatos was a cancerous growth on your Master's heart, and the saddest part of all was that everyone else could see it, except Qui-Gon. And now, ironically, the situation has repeated itself. You were a gift of the Force for your Master, and he couldn't see it, in spite of the fact that we all could."

The tears were running freely now, as Obi-Wan shook his head wearily. "No. If I'd been . . . I failed him. So many times. Over and over. I just . . . "

But Ramal Dyprio was having none of it. "You never failed him. Not even on Melida/Daan. You were young and misguided and confused; you needed guidance, not condemnation. The mistake was not yours."

Obi-Wan drew a deep breath. "No, Master Ramal. I turned my back on the Order, and . . ."

"And the Order took you back, didn't they? Why do you suppose they did that?"

Very small voice. "Because my Master . . . ."

"No." Dyprio squeezed the hands he clasped so firmly. "Not for your Master. For you. For you, Obi-Wan. For what they see in you, what they had always seen in you. Children of light are very rare, Padawan."

Obi-Wan offered no response, and the silence stretched between them and grew heavy. The Master began to think that the boy would refuse to speak again, and when he did speak, his voice was almost lost in the murmur of the surf.

"I could have taken it, you know," he said, eyes closed tightly, face looking painfully childlike in the firelight.

"Taken what?" Dyprio's tone was deliberately gentle, as if speaking to a creature of the wild which might bolt at any moment.

"His love for Xani. Even to the point of giving me up, to allow him to recapture what he had . . . before Xanatos turned. I could have taken that, if I had to."

The Master sighed, almost broken himself by the pain in that soft, cultured voice. "What was it then? What was it that you couldn't take?"

Obi-Wan rose abruptly and turned to gaze to the eastern horizon where a bloated moon was launching itself into the heavens, pouring pale azure light across the sea. "He believed I could hurt them," he replied, in a tone of disbelief. "He thought me capable of harming children."

"Obi-Wan, he didn't . . ."

"Wrong, Master." There was almost a sob in the voice now, harsh, rasping. "I saw it in his mind, when he ripped out our bond. He thought I killed . . ."

Dyprio surged to his feet, and reached for the boy, feeling the tide of agony rising in Obi-Wan's consciousness, but it was like trying to capture light in a basket. By the time he closed his hand, the youth was gone, sprinting out into the surf.

"I am the product of my Master's creation," he shouted, as he plunged forward, breasting breakers now hip-deep. "If you don't believe it, watch this!"

When the swirling water reached his chest, he paused abruptly and stood absolutely still, and waited, arms stretched out before him. His eyes were closed, and he made no sound, but Ramal Dyprio understood immediately that he was reaching out through the Force, communing with the inhabitants of the sea. Gradually, the music of the night grew softer, became a gentle hum instead of a chorus, as creatures of the darkness paused in their pursuits, as birds grew still and insects muffled their song, as even the steady thrum of the surf seemed to quiet its insistent rumble.

Ramal Dyprio felt his breath catch in his throat as he stretched out with his senses and touched something uncommon, something that tasted of a small miracle, as he saw the very molecules of air surrounding Obi-Wan begin to emit a soft, pulsating glow, a glow that was reflected and intensified in the waters around him, gleaming pale turquoise now.

And slowly, gently, tenderly, they came to him, the creatures of the sea; schools of fish, strobing coral and lime green and quicksilver; fantastic creatures comprised of tentacles and flagellates and antennae and spines and blunt appendages, streaked with scarlet and jade and citrine; great disk-shaped behemoths that seemed to fly through the water, large enough to engulf the slender youth should they choose to, black as ebony, frightening - but coming to a complete stop just out of arm's reach and hovering, edges rippling in unseen currents, waiting - capable of doing great harm, but content somehow to simply watch him.

Dozens of species, dozens of colors, dozens of different types of threats, all content to gather near, and bask in the glow that hung around him like a cape.

And finally, there came the great mammals, three times the youth's length, sleek, playful, but possessed of razor-sharp teeth and great, diaphanous fins, and long, graceful appendages that ended with suction grips, huge, faceted eyes, swirling blue and green, and tough, flexible skin that gleamed pale gold in the light gathered around the boy.

Six of them approached, and the other creatures gave ground before their advance, falling back, but not departing. It was a rite that sentient beings would have recognized immediately; these were royalty, and pride of place was theirs, when they chose to take it.

And again, they came close and stopped. And began to sing.

Ramal Dyprio sank to his knees, and never even noticed the tiny jewel-toned miracle flaring around him from the sand, as he felt the soaring of the creatures' melody rise within him, within the Force, and knew that he would never again hear anything half so beautiful or so haunting. By the gods, these sleek beings were not simply Force sensitive; they seemed to bind the great energy source to them and use it to channel their thoughts and emotions and musings into a great, intricate symphony of being, a composition which, though without lyrics, nevertheless managed to convey the majesty and harmony of their existence.

And the young man, wrapped in golden radiance, became, for a moment, their focus and their inspiration - an integral element of their connection to the Force.

It did not last long, for which Dyprio was exceedingly grateful. Some things, he thought, were so exquisite, so perfect, that they were not meant for mortal consumption. Such things could drive a man to madness, and to a hunger that could never be assuaged.

When it was over, the music simply faded; the radiance bled slowly into the sea, and the creatures dispersed in silence. Slowly the ordinary cadences of the night resumed, and it was as if it had never happened.

Obi-Wan smiled. He had never managed it before, to such a degree. It was his Master's most cherished talent, one Qui-Gon had passed along to his apprentice, though dubious of his ability to use it. And the Master had been right, until now, until this place, this world, had provided the perfect setting, and the essence of who he was had been distilled and purified in the crucible of the torment he had endured. His connection with the Force had never been so vital.

Without a word, Obi-Wan pushed off into deeper water and began to swim. Out - toward the moon's luminescence; out - toward the siren's song of the deep; out - toward infinity.

And Ramal Dyprio stood on the beach and watched, and forced himself to remain still, to not go after the boy, as every human instinct screamed that he should. But, in the end, it was the Force that spoke to him, that anchored him to the shore. This was not his moment; the paths diverging from this place were not his to choose or to walk.

He could only wait and allow the boy to be cradled in the arms of the Force as it moved with him out into the reaches of the unforgiving sea.

************** *************** ****************

Slanting rays of late afternoon sunlight painted the informal Temple garden with pale amber and dropped threads of gold into a mop of dark curls crowning a small, delicate face, wrinkled in concentration. A tiny pink tongue was pressed between pursed lips as short, plump fingers deposited a fat, globular mystrium bulb into a shallow hole in rich moist soil, faintly redolent of leaf mold.

"Gently, now," came the cautionary comment from the ancient gnome leaning forward to observe the child's efforts.

Oomy suppressed a small sigh of impatience. So far on this lovely, somnolent afternoon, she had planted over three dozen of the misshapen bulbs, ugly, veined things which reminded her vaguely of clusters of maggots, but which would, in the fullness of time, produce gigantic blossoms of surpassing beauty, and, for every single one of them, she had received the same comment.

This time, she stopped and looked up into the face of the most senior member of the Jedi Council. "I'm not a complete idiot, you know," she said tartly. "If I needed to be gentle with the forty others, it only stands to reason that I need to be gentle now."

Master Yoda blinked slowly. "Insolent, you are, Little One. Remind me, you do, of someone else."

She turned back to her task and began to cover the bulb. "My Obi," she replied. "I remind you of my Obi, as he once was."

The venerable Jedi sank into a comfortable position in the rich, freshly-turned soil and studied the girl's profile. "See the past so clearly, do you?" he asked softly.

She nodded. "See what he was, and see how his Master changed him."

"The duty of a Master, it is," said Yoda, "to mold. To guide. To . . . "

She raised her head and fixed him with rain-gray eyes - that saw entirely too much. "To break?" she demanded, and he knew she would not be deflected from her conclusions; conclusions he had, albeit reluctantly, begun to share.

"Insolence," he said, trying again, "is a trait unworthy of a Jedi."

Her peal of laughter was sweet and clear and melodic and brought a smile to his face. "Master Yoda," she said, still chuckling, "nobody is more insolent than you." 

"Understand the burdens of being Jedi, you do not, Young One," he insisted. 

She seemed to be deep in thought for a while, before responding. "I understand some of it, Master. I know he had to be taught to concentrate, to focus, to interpret the things that happened around him. I know he had to be taught to know truth from lies; honesty from deceit; good from evil. I know he had to learn about honor and integrity, about respecting the rights and beliefs of all sentient beings and about protecting those who can't protect themselves. But I don't understand why it was necessary to take away so many things that harmed no one."

Master Yoda shook his head. "To be Jedi is to learn, to gain new knowledge and understanding. Things relinquished are only those things that lead to darkness - anger, greed, jealousy, hatred. These things serve no purpose."

She regarded him solemnly. "Laughter," she said. "Joy. Self-confidence. Wit. Impudence."

"Humph," grumped Yoda, "in excess . . ."

"In excess," she retorted quickly, "all things can be dangerous."

Yoda opened his mouth to respond, and found himself suddenly with nothing to say.

But Oomy was not yet done, as she turned and fixed him once more with that piercing glare. "You tried to take all the color out of him, and make him gray and lifeless, like so many of you. Master Jinn didn't want a real flesh-and-blood padawan; he wanted a ghost - of himself, maybe, or of the one who came before."

Master Yoda actually smiled. "See entirely too much, you do," he observed, his eyes crowded with shadows. "Important to us all is your Obi. Important that he come back to us."

She nodded. "I know. Without him, there'll be no re-awakening."

The Jedi Master actually sprang to his feet, the stiffness of joints laden with over eight hundred years of living, forgotten, as he stared down at the girl. "Seen this also, have you?"

She remained calm and confident. "Just as you have, Master."

He sighed, his ears drooping slowly. "Will he come back to us?"

Suddenly, she was still, almost transfixed in the late afternoon brilliance, her eyes huge and filled with wonder. "He goes now," she whispered, "to find his destiny, to choose his path."

"Can you see. . .."

"No. I don't know yet what he wants, because he doesn't know what he wants."

"Master Qui-Gon has gone to ask him to return to us," Yoda volunteered quietly.

"Yes, but he no longer trusts his Master's motives."

Yoda frowned. "But this, he must do. He will . . ."

"No," she answered. "That he will never do again. Not completely. He may forgive his Master, one day. But he'll never forget, never again trust entirely. Never leave himself so vulnerable again."

The Master's deep breath was laden with sorrow. "Sad, child, is the death of innocence."

Oomy's smile was gentle. "He's beyond our help now, Master, yours or mine. His Master's too, I think. Where he is, there's only himself, the Force, and the spirits that linger near him. All that's left is for him to choose which he wants to spend his life with."

Footsteps thudded toward them abruptly, brazen, unconcerned with stealth.

Oomy looked up into the face of the boy who had been a part of her existence for her entire life, who had, until recently, commanded her obedience even though he had never commanded her heart.

"What are _you_ doing here?" she demanded, as icily callous as only children can be.

"Please," said Xani, his tone in stark contrast to the meaning of his words, "I need to know. Is he . . ."

"Oh," she replied tartly, "you need to know. How perfect! And which one of them would it be that you're so curious about? Master Bonehead, or my Obi?"

"Oomy," he said, hanging on to his calm by a fingertip, "please. I know it's over, that everything is just gone. But I'm begging you. How can it hurt to tell me?"

"Master Qui-Gon," said Yoda suddenly, careful to keep his voice neutral, "is well, and unharmed."

The flash of contempt in the boy's sapphire eyes was unmistakable. "Good for him. It's nice to know I meant so little to him that throwing me aside cost him nothing."

Yoda, given his age and level of wisdom, was only rarely confused, but this was one of those times.

It was Oomy who provided enlightenment as she stared at Xani's frozen face. She smiled, but it was a chilling sight. "Not Qui-Gon, Master Yoda. He couldn't care less about Qui-Gon. Don't you see? It's Obi-Wan he wants to know about; it's Obi-Wan that's done what no one else has ever been able to do."

She rose and stood facing the much larger boy, and there was no fear in her eyes. "The iceman has a heart, after all," she said, "and it's breaking. How does it feel, Xani?"

The boy simply looked down at his feet, refusing to meet her eyes. "Does he live?" he asked faintly.

"For now," she answered sharply. "But she is nearby, and waiting. If he lives through this moment, I don't know how many more he'll survive. Do you?"

He simply shook his head, and the little girl was astounded to see tears dripping from his face. In all the years she had known him, she had never seen Xani cry real tears, though he had managed a few fake ones from time to time. She was silent for a while, simply studying the misery in his face; then a new thought occurred to her, and prompted a new smile, not entirely without its share of irony. "I think your brilliant auntie screwed up, Xani, and you have her to thank for the way you feel."

"What do you mean?" he asked, his interest piqued in spite of the sulk he had sunk into.

"She manipulated your genes, and mine, to open our minds to each other, so you could access my emotions. Apparently, you accessed more than that, more than she ever intended."

He shook his head. "No, it's not . . . "

"You don't know what it is," she interrupted "You've only spent a couple of days with him, but he's already like a fever in your blood. Isn't he?"

Miserably, he nodded. "And in yours," he retorted.

She smiled. "No, he's ever so much more than that to me. He's the other half of my soul." She paused and looked down at the soil beneath her fingers as she allowed herself a small sigh. "Only he can't be. He can't ever be."

Master Yoda had been silent throughout this exchange - thinking, musing, even brooding - something which was, ordinarily, foreign to his nature. Something in the little girl's voice, in those final words, made him look sharply into her eyes and try to gauge the shadows he saw therein, but Oomy's shields remained virtually impenetrable. Still, he was sure of one thing; Oomy saw something looming in the future which she decidedly did not want to see, but she would only speak of it in her own good time - if ever.

The wizened Master tapped his gimer stick lightly, to draw her attention. "It is the sister of Xanatos of whom you speak," he said softly. "If a threat to Obi-Wan she poses, we must know. Tell me what you see, Child."

She huffed an exasperated sigh. "Not much, Master. My connection with Obi-Wan has allowed me to resist her influence, but I cannot overcome her resistance to my thoughts. I know only that she waits, and she's determined to have him. She refers to him as her 'consolation prize'."

Yoda nodded. "And this war on Drimula, in which he has involved himself?"

"All connected, Master; all parts of the whole. Horrible things have been allowed to happen to the people of that world, all in the interest of making rich people richer."

"Ummmm," said the Master slowly. "Happen everywhere, horrible things do. Control them all - prevent them all - we cannot. Operate according to the will of the Republic we do."

Oomy merely looked at him for a few moments before turning back to her gardening chores. "Convenient, that. Somehow, I always had the idea that you acted according to the will of the Force." She sighed softly and spoke no more as Xani was ushered back to his quarters by a discreet, if slightly frazzled security guard.

Master Yoda, on the other hand, continued to regard the girl with troubled eyes, and asked himself, suddenly, how a child of such tender years, with virtually no experience in worldly matters, had managed to do what scores of Masters, knights, padawans, politicians, planetary dignitaries, and countless other skilled and clever individuals had never been able to accomplish: to wit - make the chairman of the Jedi Council feel like a complete fool, and a guilty fool, to boot.

When the answer came to him, he was unable to stifle a small chortle, for it seemed he had finally found that which he had professed to seek, in every training candidate ever brought before the Council; he had finally found an individual in whom there was not even the tiniest trace of fear.

He thought, maybe, it was a good thing for the galaxy that there were not more like her; he doubted civilization would survive the trauma of a squadron of little Oomy's, wreaking havoc across the universe.

 

**************** **************** ******************

The girl stood in the doorway, eyes downcast, making no attempt to step into the cabin.

"There's a comm-call for you," she said quietly. "On the bridge."

She turned away, not waiting for a response.

"Padawan Barosse," he said softly, "please wait."

Her spine, impossibly, seemed to grow even more ramrod straight than it already was. "I have duties to attend, Master Jinn. If you'll . . ."

"Has your Master contacted you?" asked Qui-Gon, ignoring the near-insolence of her attitude.

She paused, and drew a deep breath. "No."

"Not even through your bond?"

Dark, star-centered eyes turned to observe him with little attempt to disguise the distaste therein. "He is well, and he is with Obi-Wan. Nothing else has been revealed to me." What she did not - quite - say was, that even if her Master had called to her through their link, the communication would have been entirely personal, and none of his business.

"It should have been me," he said, so softly she almost thought she had imagined it.

She laughed sharply. "No. It shouldn't."

Hard sapphire eyes bored into her, daring her to continue, but Ciara was far beyond being intimidated. "Obi-Wan is on the edge, Master Jinn. You do realize that, don't you?"

"All the more reason for . . . ."

"No!" The single syllable was stark and clear, and full of certainty. "You have missed the opportunity to save him; now, he can only save himself, if he chooses to."

Without a word, without a hint of apology, the Master reached out and grabbed the girl's padawan braid and pulled her into the cabin. "Now," he said firmly, when he had closed the door behind her, "we can speak freely. Explain yourself."

Anger blazed in her eyes, and he took a moment to acknowledge, to himself at least, that she had just cause. But she was a Jedi padawan, and she managed to regain control of her emotions, just barely. Still, when she responded to his question, her tone was acid, and bitter with recriminations. "You thought you could just sail in here and take him home. Didn't you?"

He turned to gaze out into the color-streams of the corridor to Haven, and sighed. "I know becoming a Jedi is the most important thing in his life. I thought . . . "

"Wrong!" she whispered. "You are so wrong, and he was so right. He said it was as if you never knew him at all."

"If not that, then what?" the Master cried. "What else was as important to . ."

"You," she said coldly, loudly. "You, you great bloody fool! His whole life, all he wanted was for you to be proud of him. To believe he was good enough, but he was convinced that you never would. And you know why, Master Jinn? Not because you're this monumentally stupid, willfully blind imbecile who can't see the wonder that's standing right in front of him. Oh, no! Because, if that were the case, you wouldn't be the great, perfect Qui-Gon Jinn, who can't possibly be wrong, can't be flawed. So if you're not, then, by the process of elimination, it must be him. If you couldn't be proud of him, it had to be because he wasn't worthy."

"Calm yourself, Padawan," the Master said sternly.

"Calm myself?" Ciara actually laughed. "Is that all you can think of to say? I tell you that your arrogance and callousness and contempt have destroyed a young man who loved you as no one else ever has, or ever will, and you tell me to calm myself? You know what? He shouldn't have hit you with his fist; he should have put a lightsaber right through your black heart."

Qui-Gon's face was as rigid as if carved from stone. "I will not be spoken to in that manner," he said, drawing himself up and burying his hands in the sleeves of his cloak.

"Right," she replied, too far gone now to turn back, figuring that, if she were going to be condemned for insolence anyway, she might as well take it to the maximum conclusion. "That's part of your problem. No one tells you the truth, Master Jinn. Everyone tiptoes around it, because you were so badly hurt by your apprentice who turned." She stalked toward him, a ridiculously small figure, raising her head to stare into his eyes. "I'm sure that was a terrible pain, a horrible thing to live through, to have someone take your heart and shatter it so badly that it could never be healed. And maybe that's what this is all about after all. Because Xanatos is dead, and even though he died, he never really paid for what he did to you. Did he? So you went out and found someone to pay in his place; someone to punish for all the pain you endured."

"No!" he said hoarsely. "I didn't. I wouldn't. Obi-Wan is . . ."

"Destroyed," she said coldly. "That's what Obi-Wan is. You destroyed him, Master Jinn. Just like Xanatos destroyed you. So how does it feel? Are you satisfied yet?"

She spun abruptly and lunged for the door, but something stopped her. A sound, perhaps, or a perception experienced, but not quite grasped.

"Ciara," he said, barely audible. She waited, but he seemed at a loss for words.

"Master Jinn," she replied, calm now, but still suspicious.

"I need to take him home," he said, in a voice that was empty, hollow with need.

She sighed. "I don't know if he'll go, Master. He doesn't trust you any more."

He raised a huge, pale hand to rub at his eyes, and she was amazed to see that it was trembling. "I know, but we must find a way. Please, Ciara. I need your help."

But she was backing away from him before she began to answer. "Don't ask me that," she retorted. "I can't. I've seen what you do to him, and I won't help you hurt him any more."

"He'll die here, Ciara."

A gasp caught in her throat, as she gazed into his eyes, looking for the lie, the veil of deception. She didn't find it.

"You've foreseen this?" she asked. "And don't bother lying to me because I'll know."

He shook his head slowly. "No. I have no gifts for prophecy, Child, although there are those who do who believe the same. But that's not how I know."

"Then explain yourself," she said hotly. "You can't just say something like that, and then just clam up."

His eyes had gentled somehow, and though he was looking straight at her, she thought he was seeing something someone else. "It's what he came here to do, Ciara. He believes he's lost everything."

"Thanks to you," she was quick to point out.

"Yes." Soft sigh, eyes drowning now in guilt. "Thanks to me. His whole life he has devoted to becoming a Jedi, to giving himself to a cause. So ask yourself, Child, what will he do now, when his life has lost its meaning?"

For a while, she was quiet, her thoughts skittering like leaves before a gale. At last, she looked up at him, and he was hard put not to flinch before the accusation still rampant in her eyes. "He'll find someone else to give it to."

He nodded. "And this is no game, Ciara. He will do everything he can to help these people. Climb every mountain; fight every battle; save every victim; and, in the end, when he's given all he has, and the war still goes on, he'll give his life as well. To spare someone else, probably. To save a child, maybe. The method is unimportant; it will happen."

Again she lapsed into silence, brooding over his words. When she turned to him once more, he saw a new resolve within her, but she was not yet ready to concede his point. "That, at least," she said, "would be his choice. It would allow him to believe that his sacrifice had some meaning. Which is better than what you have taught him, Master Jinn."

"Do you want to lose him?" he asked, ignoring the guilt and shame that rose within him in response to her goading.

"No," she whispered. "But I won't be a party to condemning him to half a life, to an existence that kills him by inches, a little more every day."

"Then help me," he insisted. "Help me take him home. Help me help him to become the Jedi I know he will be, perhaps the greatest of us all."

"To ease your pain?" she almost snarled. "Is that why you're here, Master Jinn? Because you've finally discovered that you can't live without him, that your life is just an empty shell when he's gone?"

He slumped against the bulkhead, eyes unfocused, lost. "I have, indeed, discovered that, Ciara, and I have no defense against your condemnation. But know this, at least; if he so chooses, I will remove myself from the Temple. I will accept field assignment, or even a permanent relocation, to another Temple site, and, with my assistance, it should be possible for him to forge another training bond, with another Master. The choice will be his, and I will allow no one to attempt to influence his decision."

The girl's eyes were huge now, as she stared at the towering Master. Qui-Gon Jinn was practically a legend in his own time, and had spent his entire life as a resident of the Great Temple. She could hardly imagine him permanently absent from its halls.

"You would really do that?" she asked finally. "For him?"

His smile was bittersweet. "I must be honest, Little One, and admit that I am selfish to the last. I will do it, because it will allow me to know that he lives. That he continues to exist. Only in this way can I continue to exist."

She nodded slowly. "Very well then, Master. I don't know how much I can do, but I . . . "

Abruptly, the girl simply froze, and seemed unable to continue, almost to be gasping for breath.

"Ciara?" Qui-Gon leapt forward and caught her as she crumpled. "What is it?"

"Too . . late," she gasped. "We may be . . .too late."

"What is it? What do you mean?"

Her eyes were wild as he lifted her up and laid her on the sleep couch, and the rasp of labored breathing was loud in her throat. "Obi . . ."

"What about Obi?" he demanded, fighting to control the dread rising within him.

"He . . . can't breathe."

************ ****************** ********************

The shore was far behind him now, out of sight, out of mind. He knew only the silken caress of the water, the shimmering trail of the moonlight, the technicolor splendor of the heavens, and the chorus of the Force that bathed his senses in wonder.

He felt no concern, no worry. He was Jedi; he could swim for a very long time. Although, of course, he could not swim forever. He was Jedi - not immortal.

Time seemed to have become distorted somehow; he had no idea how long he had been swimming, but his arms did seem to be slightly heavy and less responsive than usual. 

He rolled onto his back and stared up into the night sky, simultaneously soothed and stricken with a sense of awe at the jeweled spectrum above him. The vault of heaven, infinitely vast, infinitely beyond the narrow scale of his existence. What was one man, in the face of such magnificence? Even one Jedi, he thought with a tiny smile, was less than a grain of sand in the grand scheme of the universe.

He had thought once that the gifts he had been granted at birth might have made him capable of some meaningful contribution, but he no longer believed that. Again and again in his life, he had been measured, and found wanting.

He was tired of being measured.

And he was even more tired of failing to measure up.

He took a deep, cleansing breath and felt the pulse of life all around him, and smiled when he felt something else, as well. A fragment of a dream, perhaps, but a dream that was no longer unreachable. A dream that he could grasp.

All he had to do was let go of everything else.

 _Are you here?_ He sent the thought, without even being conscious of his intention to do so.

 _Always_ , came the answer.

He paused for a moment, remembering the events of the past few days, and allowed himself a small, rueful smile. _Are you angry?_

Sweet, gentle laughter flared in his mind. _No, my love. How could I be angry with one who loves you?_

He chuckled. _I think your definition of 'love' might be a little different from Solitaire's._

Laughter again. _You have been loved much more than you know, My Obi._

For a while, he simply lay back and stared up into the splendor of the night. _Can I stay with you?_

He heard her sigh and felt the ghost of a caress against his face. _You may have no other choice now, Love. It is very far to shore. You should not have swum so far._

 _I don't care._ He felt weariness wash over him, but it was almost welcome, almost a comfort.

The moonlight on the water seemed to flex and tremble, and he could almost see her, almost reach out and touch her. _You have another destiny, Obi. You know that._

He sighed. _My 'other' destiny seems to have deserted me._

_No, my love. It awaits you, as it always has._

_But . . ._

_Shhh, now, Beloved. Rest for a while, and if it is truly your wish to remain here, with me, it will be allowed. But you must be sure, for there is no going back, once you've taken this step._

He nodded. _Tell me what to do._

And now he could see her, as a pale, slender sylph in the moonlight, eyes reflecting the swirl of stars, lips soft and full and smiling. _Just let go, my Love. Just let go._

The gentle water, warm and silky and stroking him with loving fingers, opened to receive him and closed over him without a sound.

 

******************* ******************* *******************

It had been several hours, and the fire was little more than a bed of embers now. And Ramal Dyprio had performed virtually every kata in the Jedi lexicon and recited every mantra designed to aid in the achievement of serenity.

None of it had worked.

He was about as calm as a volcano on the eve of eruption.

And still the Force insisted that he remain where he was, and wait.

The Force hated him; he was sure of it, for there was nothing - nothing - that the Corellian Master hated worse than waiting!

He lifted his head, for what must surely be the thousandth time, and stared across the sand at the silhouette of the _Angel_ , where it sat at the edge of a small clearing. So easy it would be, he knew, to stride across that open space, sprint to the cockpit, seat himself at the pilot's console, and allow himself to merely think about finding young Kenobi, and the Force-sensitive ship would be in hot pursuit before the thought was complete.

So why, he wondered, didn't he just do it?

Because the Force insisted that he just sit here, and wait, and be as fruitful and productive as a doorstop.

But he would do what he must, and wait.

And wait - and think that it couldn't possibly get any worse.

And wait - and then it got worse.

He felt the outcry from his padawan, and knew that it was only a reflection of the impressions she was receiving from young Kenobi. And the knowledge, absorbed from their bond, that Jinn was with her was hardly a comfort.

The boy was drowning; there could be no doubt. So why was he, a fully functional, ready, willing, and able Jedi Master, still sitting here, pinned by the Force like a butterfly on a display board?

Time became meaningless, and, although it seemed as if more hours had passed, it was actually only a very short period of time before Master Ramal felt a presence approaching, a powerful presence that called to him and urged him to rise and walk into the swirling tide.

The great, golden creature of the sea, he would later learn that it was called an elphin, moved easily through the surf, unbothered by the grip of currents or tides, in a graceful, undulating motion that ate up distance with deceptive ease and speed. 

Sprawled across the creature's back, wrapped carefully in a huge, gossamer fin, was Obi-Wan Kenobi, alive and breathing, though completely unconscious.

Dyprio moved quickly to lift the young man and carry him to the beach, where he lowered him to the sand beside the remnants of the fire.

Then he looked back to where the great creature waited, and a brief message seemed to well in his mind, a gentle mental voice, laced with regret. _It is not yet his time. He has much still to do before he can take this journey._

Master Ramal nodded, and responded with the warmth of his gratitude, and the creature was gone, without so much as a ripple of sound.

The Jedi quickly retrieved the boy's clothing from where he had dropped it earlier, along with additional wood for the fire.

In a matter of moments, flames soared once more toward the heavens, providing a circle of warmth and light for the Jedi companions. 

Dyprio quickly checked the youth's condition, and determined that he was unharmed, though exhausted, and undoubtedly suffering from the trauma of the last few days. 

With a grateful sigh, and with a pulse of reassurance sent to his padawan, the Master arranged himself comfortably on the sand, wrapped his young companion in the soft warmth of his own cape, and held him, safe and sheltered, against the chill and darkness of the night.

Death had walked in their footsteps this night; of that, the Master had no doubt. And, if Obi-Wan had really been determined to die, nothing would have precluded it. But the Force had decreed, for whatever reason, that the choice must be his to make, and make it he had. For though the elphin had transported him back to the safety of the shore, he had chosen to allow it to do so.

Master Ramal watched the young man sleep, watched the flutter of his eyelids as he dreamed, and hoped that the Force would grant him pleasant dreams in this mystical place.

For now, there had been nightmares enough.

***************** ****************** *****************  
tbc


	28. Tears for Others' Woes

Chapter 28: Tears for Others' Woes

_No radiant pearl which crested Fortune wears,_  
_No gem that twinkling hangs from Beauty's ears,_  
_Not the bright stars which Night's blue arch adorn,_  
_Nor rising suns that gild the vernal morn,_  
_Shine with such lustre as the tear that flows_  
_Down Virtue's manly cheek for others' woes._

\-----Erasmus Darwin - _The Botanic Garden, Pt. II_

"Confirmed by the child, it is," said Master Yoda, huge eyes wide and fixed. "Empirical proof we still require, but Jedi eyewitness testimony will go far to convince the Senate, and the public."

Qui-Gon sat stiffly at the comm station, trying, without great success, to calm his thoughts, and concentrate on the words of the tiny Master. "I understand."

"Humph!" Yoda was obviously not amused. "Understand, do you? Doubt that, I do, when you hear not a word of what I've said to you. A problem with young Kenobi, there is, hmmmm?"

Master Jinn once more attempted to focus his thoughts, to ignore the nagging worry that plucked constantly at his consciousness and pulled him out of the here, and into the elsewhere, the elsewhere in which his padawan now slept. (He would not yet acknowledge that "ex-padawan" was technically the correct term.)

"I'm told," he said finally, choosing his words with great care, "that he's unharmed."

"Remember our conversation, do you?" 

A surge of anger swelled within the younger Master. "Unlikely that I'd forget it, don't you think?"

Yoda regarded Qui-Gon for some moments, in tranquil silence. "Remember, you must," he said finally, "that what you do, you do for him. Not for us. Mistake it not; the sister of Xanatos is tainted with the same darkness that claimed her brother, and she will stop at nothing to take Obi-Wan for her trophy. Prevented, this must be, or he will pay the price for her failure to extract revenge from the knighthood. For all of us, he will suffer."

Qui-Gon's eyes had grown steadily darker as the tiny Master had delivered his warning and now were hard and glossy and forbidding. "She will be stopped, Master."

Yoda sighed heavily. "Too close to this are you, Master Qui-Gon. Too caught up in your own feelings of guilt and confusion, and too angry. You must release your feelings to the Force, or you will be unable to function as you must. When you are calm, you will be able to do what must be done to save him, or to put him forever beyond the reach of such evil."

The sound of hastily drawn breath from behind him reminded Qui-Gon that he was not alone on the bridge of the _Lady Ghost_ , and that there was no privacy mode available at this comm unit. It was completely unnecessary for him to turn to identify the eavesdropper; Ciara's Force signature was blazing brightly in his mind, and her sense of outrage was even brighter.

But there was no time now to address her concerns, as the senior member of the Jedi Council was still speaking, and still regarding his subordinate with unconcealed suspicion. "On your actions, much depends, Young One. A debt, the Jedi owe to the boy. Abandon him to be used by the Darkside, we cannot. You cannot. Understand this, do you?"

"I do, my Master."

"And prepared, are you, to do what you must?" The ancient Master was not going to allow Qui-Gon any room to sidestep this particular issue, even though something in his tone intimated that he understood all too well the terrible burden he was placing on the younger Jedi.

Qui-Gon sighed, and thought for a moment that he would really just like to find a dark, quiet, cozy corner of the universe - and sleep for a few hundred years. "I will do what I must, Master, but you will allow that I must exhaust every possibility, before taking the ultimate step."

Yoda hesitated for a moment, which, in itself, was almost unprecedented, before nodding. "Ummm, yes. Be sure you must. But delaying too long, waiting because the task is too painful for you, must be avoided. Otherwise, lose him you will, and thank you for the gift of his life, he will not."

"I do not believe he will turn," said the tall Master, almost to himself.

Large, citrus eyes blinked slowly. "Agree with you, I do, but there are other ways he could be used. Ways that would make him a prisoner within the confines of his own mind, while his body - and his abilities - would be controlled by others. Want that for him, you would not."

Qui-Gon was unable to suppress a shudder. "That's the most perfect definition of hell I've ever heard."

"Ummm," agreed Yoda softly. "See that you remember it."

With a flash of actinic particles, the hologram dissolved, and Qui-Gon was left to wonder how anyone could ever forget such a horrible image.

"They told you to kill him." It was the barest whisper of sound from the shadows behind him. 

Squaring his shoulders to bolster his own determination, he turned to face the girl who had been Obi-Wan's best friend through all his childhood. "Didn't they?" she demanded, louder now. "They told you to kill him, if you can't bring him back."

"Ciara," he said softly, placatingly, "Obi-Wan must not be turned."

"Of course not," she retorted acidly. "That wouldn't do at all, would it? Terrible PR for the knighthood, not to mention the great Qui-Gon Jinn. If the Jedi start losing their padawans to the Darkside - well. It just won't do, will it? The next thing you know we'll have rebellion among the padawan ranks, sit-ins and protest marches and . . . and padawans demanding union representation, and Force only knows what else. The Senate could even start rethinking all that lovely funding, couldn't they?"

"That's not fair, padawan," he said softly. "That's not the issue, and you know it."

But she was shaking her head, eyes huge and bruised, somehow, as if wounded by disillusionment. "You know, Master Jinn, I'm not sure I do know it. I'm not sure of much of anything any more. Does it seem to you that things are changing around us? That even the Order of the Jedi is changing, and not for the better?"

"Change is inevitable, Padawan Barosse. You know that, as well as I. It's the one constant in the universe."

Her gaze was steady, disconcerting. "Funny, I always believed that the Jedi were the constant, the one thing we could always count on."

And now there was a flare of something deep in his sapphire eyes, a warmth, a certainty, a measure of comfort. "Not the Jedi, Ciara. Nor any other institution devised by the community of sentient beings. The Force. That you may count on, for all time. There lies your comfort, and your strength."

"And Obi-Wan's," she said firmly, her tone allowing no dissent. "You know it as well as I do, Master Jinn. No matter what, Obi-Wan will not turn."

His sigh was shaky. "Ciara, we must face . . . ."

"No!" She was adamant and outraged - and absolutely magnificent in her determination. "He will _not_ turn, and I won't allow you, or anyone else, to decide that you have the right to save him from himself. You don't, and neither does the Council. Obi-Wan has earned the right to decide his own fate."

"Padawan, I have my instructions from the Council," he replied, regretfully.

She actually snorted. "And since when, Master Rogue, has that ever stopped you?"

He fought an urge to squirm under her glare and felt vaguely ridiculous for being put in such a position by an upstart apprentice. "Take care, Child. Admittedly, I have occasionally allowed myself a certain latitude in interpreting the Council's instructions, in matters of small import, but . . ."

"Oh," she interjected, dripping sarcasm, "I see. When it suits you, you're free to take whatever 'latitude' you need, but when it really counts - when Obi-Wan's life is on the line, you're suddenly just a mindless little automaton, who can only follow orders. Is that it?"

"Enough!" he said sternly. "Believe as you wish, but . . . "

"Thanks!" she interrupted, ignoring the look of annoyance that flashed in his eyes. "I'll do that, and I see no point in continuing this discussion."

The Jedi Master's mouth remained slightly agape as he watched her stalk away, and he was forced to take a moment to compose himself as another voice spoke from behind him, a voice almost choked with laughter.

"Wish I'd had a holo-cam," said Arain Fer'mia with barely concealed glee. "A Jedi padawan - slicing, dicing, and generally making mincemeat out of a Jedi Master. That's got to be a first."

Qui-Gon's eyes narrowed. "Her Master," he said through clenched teeth, "is Corellian." As if that explained everything.

Fer'mia simply grinned harder, but a keen observer might have noted that his eyes remained cold - almost glacial. "You know," he said softly, so softly that only the Jedi could hear, "I don't know much about what passes for honor or acceptable behavior among the Jedi. And I'm not sure I understand everything about that little conversation you just had. Maybe it's even better that way; maybe there are things about your precious Order that I don't even want to know."

He paused to make sure that he had the Jedi Master's full attention.

"But I do know this: if you try to hurt that kid, you're going to have to go through me - and most of my crew - to do it." He leaned forward and thumped his forefinger against Qui-Gon's chest - hard. "And I don't give a flying fuck what your 'noble' reason might be. Are we clear on that?"

Qui-Gon closed his eyes, reaching for a serenity that grew increasingly hard to grasp as this interminable day wore on. When he opened them, the Drimulan captain had not moved, and still looked as if he would like nothing better than to strike the Jedi dead where he stood.

"Captain Fer'mia," said Qui-Gon very softly, "I don't expect you to believe me. You obviously have no reason to. But I am exceedingly grateful for your concerns for my padawan, despite the fact that his situation has been - how shall I put it - extremely fortuitous for you. He has been an asset to you, has he not?"

Fer'mia smiled, and, across the bridge, Palani Vau-Bremayne drew a deep, tremulous breath; even she, who knew the captain better than almost anyone and who occasionally dared to challenge him in ways no one else would even consider, would have known better than to raise such a question.

Suddenly, the finger on the chest became a clasped fist, clenched around a handful of Jedi tunic. So startled was Qui-Gon - no one had ever, within his memory, dared to grab him in such a manner - that he simply gaped at his assailant. "Listen, Fucker," hissed the Drimulan, "don't you ever insinuate that _we_ were using him. That's a role we'll leave for you and your precious knighthood to claim, because users tend to discard things once their usefulness is done. Now which one of us fits that description, hmmmm?"

The bridge - and everyone on it - simply froze, for a moment. Even breathing was suspended, and even those who had not actually overheard the exchange sensed that something crucial and sharp and very ugly hung in the balance for the space of a heartbeat.

Qui-Gon, by virtue of a herculean effort, subdued the rage rising within him and regarded Fer'mia dispassionately, realizing, to his great consternation, that the Drimulan was right, once all the emotional baggage was trimmed away from his assertion.

"My apologies, Captain," said the Jedi, still somehow projecting great dignity. "You are quite correct. Of the two of us, it is I who have used him shamelessly and rewarded him so poorly. Still, I was sincere when I said that I thank you for your concern for him, and for what you've given him. Like you, I want only what is best for him."

"Um, hmm," replied Fer'mia, obviously unconvinced. "The problem is that we might not agree on what that is."

Qui-Gon nodded, drew himself up, and tucked his hands in his sleeves, his eyes stern and unyielding. "In that case, I'm afraid I'll be forced to ask you to trust my judgment, Captain."

Fer'mia laughed, softly, at first, and then louder - and louder still. He was still laughing when he simply turned and walked away.

*********************** ********************** ***********************

 

Obi-Wan wakened exactly as he always did, slowly, reluctantly, clinging to the last possible shred of the blissful comfort of sleep.

It was only as he was approaching the final threshold, separating him from full consciousness, that he became aware of a warmth and a presence surrounding him, and memory rushed in like matter into a void as his eyes flickered open. He was curiously comforted by the certainty that the aura that hovered around him had stood watch over him as he slept, soothing his bruised spirit, just as surely as the oblivion of dreamless sleep had renewed his battered body.

As always, Haven's dawn was so beautiful, it was almost decadent - a surrealist artwork of feathered brush strokes of rose and mauve and lilac, all touched with silver - and he allowed it to wash over him and through him. When it left him, it seemed to take with it all the toxicity of the remnants of yesterday.

"How do you feel?" He heard the baritone voice in his ear and felt its rich reverberation against his back, and, for the most fleeting of moments, he was caught up in old memories. Memories of missions when survival had dictated that he and his Master share a bed and the meager heat of their bodies to stave off the chill of night; memories of that great rangy form providing protection against the perils of darkness and the monsters of nightmare as well. He closed his eyes when he felt tears welling; he had no time for such foolishness.

"You didn't have to do this, Master Ramal," he said softly. "I'm not a child any more."

A huge, roughhewn hand swept abruptly through his hair as the Master chuckled. "We're all children from time to time, Padawan. Besides, you're a most efficient little body warmer, and, lovely as this place is, the night air gets quite chilly."

Obi-Wan just nodded and rolled up to a sitting position as the roseate glow of pre-dawn was superceded by the pale gold luster of new morning. He started to rise, but paused when Ramal leaned forward and clasped his forearm firmly.

The young Jedi managed, barely, to suppress a moan, thinking that he had hoped to avoid any further reference to the events of the night.

But Ramal surprised him; apparently, there would be no in-depth probing. The comment, when it came, was terse and to the point. "You chose well, Padawan. The Jedi would be very proud of you, if they had any right, any longer, to feel such pride."

With a wry sense of the contrariness of his nature, the young man realized abruptly that he actually wanted to explain his choice, but not too well. And to express one thing more. "Thank you, Master Ramal," he said, barely audible. "It must have been difficult for you."

The big Corellian smiled and nodded. "It was."

Obi-Wan rose and walked to the water's edge, stretching tight muscles and joints as he moved. "I don't think my Master could have done it," he said softly, almost too softly for Ramal to hear.

And, again, Ramal surprised him. "I agree. I don't think he could either."

"Because he doesn't trust me enough." There was neither anger nor resentment in his voice, just acceptance.

Master Ramal chuckled softly, before rising to join him at the water's edge. "No, Obi, it's not that he doesn't trust you enough."

"It's not?" Now the boy was actually curious.

Dyprio regarded him with fondness and a profound sadness. "It's that he loves you too much."

Now anger and bitter resentment did flash in those luminous blue-green eyes, and Dyprio felt a tirade ready to burst forth. But he raised his hand and clasped the young man's shoulder while transmitting a tiny little pulse of Force energy, a pulse which served as a gentle urge for silence. "I know you don't believe that," he continued, ignoring the boy's surge of frustration. "I know you don't feel it inside you. That's a big part of your problem - and his. You're both so shielded against everything, and, particularly, against each other, that your feelings just stay bottled up inside you, until you strangle on them."

But Obi-Wan was not going to be that easy, and Dyprio knew it. "He - threw - me - away," he said, through clenched teeth.

"Yes. He did." The Master would not try to argue against inarguable facts. Then he looked down into storm-glossed eyes, and smiled. "And now you get to make him pay for it - and pay - and pay - and pay. So knock yourself out, Kid. You've earned it."

"That's not what I want," the boy said quietly, eyes softening, unfocussed.

But Dyprio was not playing any longer, and knew that the time had come to lay everything on the table. "Really? Sorry, but that's how it looks from here. I mean, I know you've got good cause for anger; I'd be angry too. But look closely at what you're doing, Obi. Whether you forgive him or not, he's come here to take you home, to give back what was taken from you."

The Corellian stepped closer and clasped his hands on the boy's shoulders, forcing Obi-Wan to look up and meet his eyes. "He's come to give you back your life and your future, to make you a Jedi again. And you're so busy holding on to your righteous anger and regarding yourself as some kind of brave martyr, that you're denying yourself the very thing that is most precious to you. So how much does it mean to you, for him to suffer for what he did? Enough to throw away everything you've ever wanted, just so he feels guilty for taking it from you?"

For just a moment, Dyprio thought maybe he had gone too far, and a small thrill of alarm raced up his spine as he saw pure, blind rage spark briefly in Obi-Wan's eyes. Then, abruptly, the younger man tore free of the Master's grip and raced down the beach, giving voice to a wordless, almost mindless bellow.

Then he stopped, arched his back, shook his fists at the heavens, and shouted. "That's so fucking unfair, Master. You fight dirty."

Wearily, Ramal Dyprio nodded his agreement, noticing for the first time that his back was stiff and sore, and his joints were achy. He was definitely getting too old for this shit!

"I don't know a thing about fair, Kid," he called. "All I know is that I've got sand in places I don't even want to think about; I'm hungry and thirsty, and I'd kill for a hot shower. And if you try to get between me and a hot cup of kaffa, I'm going to carve you into giblets with my trusty blade."

Obi-Wan hesitated, but only for a moment, before breaking into laughter. "The _Angel_ can supply all of that and more."

Dyprio frowned, hearing something sly in the boy's tone. "And?"

Obi-Wan grinned, and took off running. "And she'll only hear her Master's voice."

Dyprio didn't bother chasing; he knew truth when he heard it. He would get his kava, and his food, and his shower, but only when and if the boy instructed his lovely ship to provide them.

He walked slowly across the sand, stopping once to gaze out across the placid stretch of the morning sea, stained coral and topaz by the touch of the sun. Something extraordinary had happened in this place; he knew that,and felt privileged to have been allowed to be a part of it.

He had done all that he could now, had planted a seed that he hoped would survive to bear fruit,but it was not yet a sure thing. Only time would reveal which path the boy would choose to take to extricate himself from the nexus of this moment,and the Master was almost certain that, pure and strong in the Force as the padawan was, there was within him a compelling urge to extract some measure of justice, an urge that would be almost impossible for anyone to resist, even a Jedi padawan with extraordinary gifts. No, that was wrong. Not justice; vengeance. It was not the Jedi way, but it was all too human, and the callous act of being abandoned to flounder in a hell of unimaginable torment, seemed to demand no less than a reprisal of similar intensity to assuage the suffering of the a young vulnerable soul.

Obi-Wan was as capable of forgiveness as anyone the Corellian had ever known, but in every person - every single person - there was a limit. A point of no return, a place in which the damage wrought on the spirit was so severe that recovery became impossible.

Had young Kenobi reached that point?

Master Ramal hoped not, for, if he had, both he and the Master who sought to restore him would be forever lost.

Dark thoughts; dark musing; dark brooding.

And, then, suddenly - almost miraculously - the smell of kaffa, bringing with it the possibility, slim but definitely viable, that all might yet be right with the world, and the galaxy, and the universe.

The Master was whistling as he walked up the _Angel_ 's boarding ramp.

 

****************** ********************** **********************

 

"That's it, then," said Palani, obviously not happy with her conclusions. "No choice. Someone has to go in and get them."

The captain of the _Lady Ghost_ was slouched in his office chair, one booted foot propped atop his desk, eyes reflecting the jewel-toned brilliance of the star scape. "We've gone to that well too many times, 'Lani. I'm not sure anyone can get in and out without getting fried."

The shadowed image on the viewscreen wavered slightly as Jhevaghn Fer'mia leaned forward, worry and uncertainty making her voice strident and hoarse. "Rain, don't you dare tell me you can't take the risk. You know what kind of risk he's taken. We can't afford to lose him, and if they take him, you know what will happen."

The captain rose and walked to his beloved viewport. "There is one possibility," he said softly, almost reluctantly.

Palani swallowed painfully. "The _Angel_ ," she breathed, with a sigh.

"The _Angel_ ," he confirmed.

"The biggest risk of all," said his first mate, her eyes hard and daring him to disagree.

"Yes, but with the best chance for success."

Another figure stepped forward, out of the shadows at the back of the room. Solitaire had been exceedingly quiet of late, thought Fer'mia, and he hoped the Weapons Master finally had something worthwhile to communicate.

The mechanical tones of the voice seemed slightly distorted, falling on the ear with a disharmony that was almost painful. "There are other Jedi available now, to pilot the vessel."

Fer'mia nodded. "Indeed there are, but I gave that ship to him. It wasn't a loan; it was a gift. So how well do you think it's going to go over if I now decide that I was too hasty and need to take it back so I can get someone else to fly it?"

Palani chuckled. "I think you'll be picking teeth out of your lungs if you try it. Besides, from what I've seen, I don't think the _Angel_ would allow it any way. That ship may not be sentient, exactly, but it comes close, and it has a definite bias toward its master."

Fer'mia's eyebrows rose. "You really think so?"

She smiled. "Since none of us, who aren't Jedi, can even get it to notice we exist, I can't be sure. It obviously won't speak to me. But it did express its feelings rather rudely when Master Jinn attempted to access its data encryption codes."

"What did it do?" asked Fer'mia, grinning broadly.

"Erupted in a shower of sparks, that set fire to his hair."

Even Jhevaghn could not resist a tiny chuckle. "OK, Rain," she said finally, and the sound of her weariness was a blight on his soul, "send your little Jedi friend, or send a troop of trolls. I don't care. Send somebody, but do it fast. I don't know how long we can keep him hidden. They've stepped up the patrol schedule and announced the arrival of more 'peacekeepers'. That's what they're calling the mercenaries now, and the new ones are packing enough firepower to destroy a small city. So please hurry. I'm transmitting the co-ordinates now, and a graph of safe pick-up points and times."

The captain nodded. "I'm not sure how, but we'll manage."

The flickering image, transmitted by equipment obviously in dire need of major overhaul, faded, then reformed as the delicate face of the Drimulan woman stared at her cousin. "Rain, there's more."

"Go ahead," he replied, a huge lump of near panic settling somewhere in the vicinity of his lungs.

"You have to take Devlyn out too."

The captain actually recoiled, as if confronted with a reality he could not face. "Jhe, it'll kill him. The device will explode. You know that."

She actually smiled. "Maybe not, now. After all, Rain. Now, you have a Jedi."

"It's too dangerous. We don't know that Obi-Wan can even find the device, much less deactivate it."

"Rain," she said firmly, "we have no choice."

Something in her voice, or in the shadows of her face, drove a dagger of ice into his heart. "What's happened?"

She drew a deep ragged breath. "They mined the forest trails," she replied, "in an attempt to disrupt the transmissions. He . . . "

"Go on."

She squared her shoulders, and wiped her eyes impatiently. "He would have been killed, but Duana got there first."

Arain Fer'mia, the Galactic Ghost, a man notorious for being nerveless and dispassionate and without remorse or weakness, went to his knees, his breath frozen in his throat. "No," he said softly.

But Jhevaghn was nodding relentlessly. "Yes. If it makes you feel any better, she didn't suffer. She died instantly."

For a moment, there was only silence as Fer'mia fought for composure. She had been his governess for as long as he could remember, a substitute for the mother who had died when he was still a toddler, a woman of unsurpassing gentleness and sweet charm. How could this . . .

He raised his eyes and stared at the viewscreen. "Where is she?"

Jhevaghn sighed. "They took her body. It was all we could do to get Devlyn out of there before they arrived. Rain, please. He's twelve years old, and it's been almost two years since he's even seen the sun. He's injured; he'll probably lose at least one leg. I'm begging you to take him out of this hellhole."

Finally, he just nodded and turned to his first mate.

"Get me Kenobi," he said simply. Some things just had to be done, no matter how grave the risk.

 

*************** ******************** ***************  
In a broad tree-lined area near the center of the city, there was a huge outdoor complex that appeared to have been designed as a play area for children, although the nature of some of the artifacts suggested that the 'children' in question must have been members of a very advanced species. Still, in all races, all civilizations, there were certain constants, and - for children - the most prevalent constant, across the galaxy, was a need (and a desire) for play.

Since the current population of Haven included few children, and still fewer adults with any interest in physical recreation (other than that to be found within the walls of the local brothels) the huge play area was largely unused and unexplored. Or rather, it had been, until the Jedi arrived.

For their purposes, it was perfect, a lush, natural area, floored with either drifts of low-growing grasses or meadow flowers, or a soft, organic aggregate that provided deep cushioning for young bodies tumbling from various types of play equipment. The Force was strong in the verdant serenity of the park, flowing uninterrupted from thick vegetation, through a myriad network of streams and tiny cascades, to swarms of minute winged insects that flashed ruby and sapphire - sequin-bright - in dappled sunlight. Deep, natural pools, lined with shards of nacreous shells, like broken pottery, dotted the landscape with strokes of cerulean and reflected the wonders above and around in exquisite detail.

It had lain in virtual silence for decades, maybe even centuries. 

It was silent no longer, echoing now with a strange, strident hum, and an occasional lusty grunt. Not to mention a few catcalls and heckles.

"Whoa-ho, Kenobi! Way to stop a blade - with your face!"

Obi-Wan circled warily, blade extended slightly, eyes never wavering from the face of his opponent, ignoring the angry red stripe that stood out so brightly against the pale gold skin just under his jawline. "Can't you teach her some manners?" he snarled, through gritted teeth.

Ramal Dyprio grinned. "I have tried. I'm afraid she's just . . ."

"Hopeless," snapped the boy, as he feinted left, then leapt right, neatly avoiding the swift jab of the Master's bright turquoise blade.

But Dyprio was not renowned as a master of the lightsaber for nothing, and transformed his missed jab into the prelude to a brilliant shift of his body's center, pulling him back and away from the azure blade now brought to bear toward his shoulder.

Neither combatant scored, but each experienced both the sweet taste of successful evasion, and the short breath of a terribly close call.

"I am not hopeless," called Padawan Ciara, blatant in her attempts to distract her Master's opponent. "Last month, the crown prince of Eneait'ha thought my manners were exquisite. He told me so."

"Was that before or after you decked him?" demanded Obi-Wan, as he propelled himself into a back flip to escape the Master's roundhouse swing.

"Before," she admitted ruefully, then glared as she noted young Kenobi's gleeful grin. "Oh, don't look so smug! How was I supposed to know the Eneait'ha express inter-gender compliments with an ear bite?"

Ramal Dyprio flashed his apprentice a swift frown. "Ceremonial only, my padawan," he assured her, as he leapt to a narrow crossbeam where his young opponent was already awaiting him. "Ceremonial."

"Ceremonial?" The girl's response was a squawk. "Master, one more second and I would have been lobeless."

Obi-Wan barked his laughter, and almost paid for it with a posterior burn that would have been exceedingly uncomfortable. "No fair," he yelped, dropping to the ground, and adjusting his position to await the next feint from the Master. "How am I supposed to concentrate with images like that flashing in my mind?"

She grinned. "You're a Jedi. You're supposed to be able to resist distraction."

Obi-Wan frowned, and lost his focus entirely as his eyes picked out a motionless patch of brown, in a virtual sea of greens and pastels. Master Ramal's formidable skill was the only thing that prevented a painful blister across the ex-padawan's rib cage, and not even he was sufficiently adept to prevent a scorch mark on Obi-Wan's undertunic.

"Enough," said Dyprio firmly, "before you wind up as one big blister looking for a bacta tank. You're distracted, Obi-Wan."

Obi-Wan flexed shoulder and neck muscles that were much tighter than they should have been. "Sorry, Master. Give me a minute, and I'll . . ."

"No. No more saber practice today," said Dyprio, pausing to look across the open park area around them. "At least, not with me."

The younger Jedi fixed the Master with a cold, forbidding gaze, but Ramal Dyprio was neither chilled, nor intimidated. He leaned forward and touched gentle, healing fingers to the angry red mark beneath the boy's jawline, and took the opportunity to whisper softly. "Sooner or later, Padawan, you're going to have to face him. Talk to him."

"Why?" said Obi-Wan, just the barest breath away from a degree of insolence that even the notoriously tolerant Dyprio might be unable to overlook.

"Because, you cocky little bastard, the only person that you're hurting more than him is yourself."

Obi-Wan turned, very slowly, and faced the individual who knelt in a patch of soft, filtered light, at the very edge of a moss-banked pool, draped in the voluminous folds of a Master's cape, silky drifts of hair dotted with coins of sunlight. Between them, fifty meters of open meadow was still not enough for the young man to be unaware of the intense regard of azure eyes.

"Master," said Ciara abruptly, a vein of unease in her voice, "you don't know . . ."

But, for perhaps the only time in his life, Dyprio silenced his padawan with a stern look. "This," he said firmly, his eyes stern, "is not our business, my young apprentice. It's between Obi-Wan and his Master."

"But . . ."

"No buts."

Ciara actually stared at her Master as if he had grown horns and a tail. In all their years together, he had never refused to listen to anything she had to say.

Obi-Wan spared a quick glance for his childhood friend, and observed that, if he hadn't been in such a foul mood, over such a foul subject, he might have laughed at her expression of complete incredulity.

"I have nothing to say to him," he said finally.

"Oh, I think you do," Ramal replied, serenely. "One thing, at least."

Sea-change eyes, almost storm gray now, narrowed as the boy continued to stare across the open area. When he finally moved, it was without his customary fluidity, and even Ramal Dyprio was sufficiently alarmed to murmur a silent prayer to the Force that the boy would manage to endure these moments, without giving in to an urge to gut his former Master like a skewered mynock.

"Obi." The basso voice was almost a rumble, but it held a curious, unmistakable gentleness.

Obi-Wan paused. "It's OK, Jeb. I just . . . need to see a man about a dragal."

Jebbitz was obviously unconvinced, as he regarded the young man stoically, but without confidence. Obi-Wan sighed, recalling his return to the _Lady Ghost_ after his magical night on Haven. Jeb had been waiting, and Obi-Wan had actually cringed beneath the sense of betrayal he had read in the huge Corellian's face. Even if the gentle giant's determination to do his duty had been nothing more than that of a conscientious subordinate with an assigned task, the young Jedi would have been compelled to honor such devotion. But any fool with a scintilla of common sense could see that the task of protecting Obi-Wan was rapidly becoming ever so much more than an assignment; it was becoming a vocation, and Obi-Wan was both honored - and horrified - by the development. 

The bottom line, it seemed, was that it mattered not in the least that, as a Jedi, he had no need of such protection. What mattered was that it was given with unconditional loyalty. Such gifts one did not reject, or devalue.

"Really, Jeb," Obi-Wan said softly. "It'll be fine. This man" - he drew a deep unsteady breath - "would never hurt me."

Jebbitz looked at Obi-Wan from beneath hooded eyes. "Think maybe he already did," he replied sullenly.

And Obi-Wan paused long enough to flash his hulking friend a brilliant smile, the smile that could melt the coldest hearts and had even been known to change the mind of more than a few Jedi Council members, from time to time. "OK, maybe he did, but he won't do it again. OK? Now let me get this over with."

Jebbitz merely stood and watched, still not entirely sanguine with allowing this confrontation to happen, as the young man stalked toward the motionless Jedi Master. Simultaneously, and with absolutely no subtlety, Padawan Ciara dragged her Master to a nearby bench and proceeded to bury him under a torrent of invective - loud, insistent, strident invective.

Obi-Wan actually heard her voice, but not really, for, as he moved forward, everything around him seemed to recede. Except for the figure kneeling before him, who seemed to grow and surge forward; whose eyes seemed to swell to the point that it would be so easy to simply fall into those sapphire depths and drown.

The young man did not pause until he was looming over his former Master, arms crossed, feet planted firmly, eyes wide and defiant. But Qui-Gon Jinn had not been a gifted diplomat/negotiator for his entire life for no reason; he knew, better than almost anyone, the value of silence, and he used it now.

For a moment, it almost seemed that he had miscalculated; and he realized that it was a near thing. Obi-Wan almost turned and walked away, without a word.

In the end, he didn't, but his first words did nothing to assuage the tension of the moment. "You have something to say to me, Master Jinn, or are you just following me around for the hell of it?"

Qui-Gon's expression remained inscrutable, except for the barest flutter of something elusive in midnight eyes. "What would you have me say, Obi-Wan? I have no doubt that you've anticipated every possible remark I could make; you're an extremely bright young man, and you know me better than almost anyone else."

"Not as well as I thought I did," replied Obi-Wan coldly.

Qui-Gon nodded. "You see? Very pithy. Even quotable, but hardly spontaneous."

The younger man smiled. "Spontaneous is what you got the last time we met."

The Master rose to his feet with characteristic, almost boneless grace. "I would prefer to avoid a repeat of that, if possible."

Obi-Wan fixed his gaze on the glints of silver that sparked in the depths of the tiny forest pool at the Master's feet, deliberately refusing to meet Qui-Gon's eyes.

"Did that make you feel better?" asked the Master finally.

"Yes." Clipped, sharp, defiant.

"No, it didn't."

And now the stormy eyes did turn and confront those of cobalt blue. "If you're going to argue my answers, why ask the question?"

Qui-Gon's gaze was steady - and unrelenting. "To find out if you're ready to speak - or hear - the truth."

Obi-Wan almost shuddered, but caught himself, just in time. His voice, when he responded, was only a wisp of sound, but the bitterness within in was a sharp and biting as ground glass. "Your truth, Master Jinn? Would it surprise you to learn that I don't think your truth has much in common with reality?"

"You have a question for me, Pa . . . Obi-Wan."

"If you know the question, then give me the answer." His tone was as rigid as his posture, which was stiff to the point of shattering spontaneously.

Qui-Gon's composure was as unshakable as granite, or, at least, so it seemed from Obi-Wan's perspective. The pulse pounding so thunderously in the man's chest was completely undetectable by the young Jedi, courtesy of exquisitely honed shielding, the product of a lifetime of practice.

"I would give you an answer," said the Master very softly, "if I had one that would make sense. I don't."

Suddenly, the Master's serenity was like a dagger in Obi-Wan's heart, and he reached out and grabbed fistfuls of Qui-Gon's cape and jerked the Master forward, until they were almost nose to nose. "Try me," he said through clenched teeth. "I want to hear it - need to hear it. All those years, all the times you sifted through my thoughts, I want to know how you could believe me capable of harming a child, Master!" The final word was so filled with bitterness and rage that Qui-Gon could not - quite - control the urge to flinch.

For a moment, neither of them moved, not even to breathe, until, very slowly, Qui-Gon raised a single hand and cupped Obi-Wan's jaw with infinite gentleness. When the young man would have jerked away, the Master quickly used his free arm to encircle the ex-padawan's slender waist and hold him in place.

"Let me go!" snarled the boy, trying to jerk loose of that grip, even reaching for the Force to gain sufficient leverage to free himself.

But two could - and did - play that game. "Obi-Wan," said the Master, still somehow apparently filled with calm resolution, "I know you are filled with hatred and anger and resentment, but you _will_ listen to me. Then you will be free to do as you choose."  


 _"Let-me-go!"_ The fury flaring in eyes customarily filled with gentleness and hope knifed through Qui-Gon like a scythe.

"I don't think so, Padawan," he answered, very deliberately. "You see, in some ways, I know you better than you know yourself, and I won't give you the chance to stalk away in a temper tantrum."

"I don't have temper tantrums!" The anger had abated not at all, and even grew more intense when Qui-Gon had the unmitigated gall to chuckle.

"The fault was not yours, Obi-Wan," said Qui-Gon, not bothering to raise his voice, but knowing, somehow, that he would be heard, in spite of the young man's wrath. "It was never yours. It was always mine."

Obi-Wan grew still, not even breathing, but the rage within him continued to roil and grow. "Don't think for a minute," he said, with deceptive softness, "that that old trick is going to work on me. You've used that ploy successfully for the last time. I am sick to death of being manipulated with your oh-so-sincere guilt trips."

"You think it merely a ploy?"

"Merely?" Obi-Wan allowed himself a bitter chortle. "Certainly not 'merely', my Master." Again, the word dripped with scorn, which splattered like acid against Qui-Gon's emotions. "Rather call it . . . let's see. I've got it, a 'masterful' ruse, custom designed to put impudent padawans in their proper places, under the thumbs of their Masters."

"You don't really believe that."

Suddenly, Obi-Wan went almost limp, as rage and stubbornness and resistance just seemed to drain away. He realized abruptly that he was simply much too tired to continue this battle. "Please don't presume to tell me what I believe," he said wearily, "because you have no idea what I believe, or who I am, apparently."

Qui-Gon loosened his grip on the younger man, but didn't release him, and leaned back to force the boy to meet his gaze. "Oh, but that's where you're wrong, Obi-Wan. I now know exactly who you are. And the tragic part of it is that I always did; I just couldn't handle it."

But Obi-Wan was shaking his head. "I don't understand, and I don't think I care much, one way or the other."

Qui-Gon sighed. "If that is your final decision, I will abide by it, Obi-Wan, but you must hear me out first, for both our sakes, if you don't believe you should listen to me for your own."

"Say it then," retorted Obi-Wan, feeling the beginning of a massive headache stir in his temples. "Say your piece, for all the good it will do."

The Master dropped his arms then and stepped away from his former apprentice, burying his hands in the sleeves of his cape. He turned to gaze up into the vault of heaven, where day was beginning to recede and the first pale stars were twinkling in and out of sight.

Obi-Wan considered running, for no other reason than that it would express his obstinacy, but, in the end, he remained where he was, regarding Qui-Gon's profile with dark, wounded eyes as he repeated a silent litany of all the reasons he had to reject anything this man might say. But still, he listened.

"Xanatos," said the Master quietly, "was my reason for living. He filled my life and my heart, even though I was ever a solitary man, Obi-Wan. Even then. Never one to allow anyone to approach too closely or touch too deeply. Until Xanatos. The walls I had built around my heart just crumbled before him."

Qui-Gon glanced briefly at the young Jedi, in an attempt to gauge his reaction, but there was nothing to be gleaned from that stern countenance. Drawing a deep breath, the Master sank to the ground and sat cross-legged, and peered into the mirror image reflected in the silky pool before him. "I don't know why; have never understood why. Master Yoda believed that the boy filled some previously undetected emptiness within me, and maybe he was right, for I felt complete, somehow. For the first time in my life."

Obi-Wan moved to lean against a slanting tree trunk, and determined to ignore the tremors that gripped him. "This is old news. What has it to do with . ."

"With you?" the Master asked, with a rueful smile. "Only everything, Little One." An abrupt blaze in sea-change eyes made him raise a supplicating hand. "Sorry - slip of the tongue!"

"Don't slip again, or you're talking to yourself." The hoarseness in his voice could have been due to wisps of mist rising now in the twilight, but wasn't.

"He was with me longer than you, Obi-Wan. I don't know if you knew that. And I knew him in a way that I never let myself know you. Knew him to the core of his being, or so I believed. Can you - is it possible for you to imagine believing that you know someone so completely and trust someone so absolutely, only to find that you never really knew them at all; that you've been duped into putting your faith into an illusion?"

"Yes," Obi-Wan said, in a hollow voice. "I think I can."

Qui-Gon's smile was bittersweet. "Yes, I suppose you can. Which makes you stronger than me, because I couldn't. I couldn't believe that he wasn't what I always believed him to be. There had to be another explanation."

When the Master paused, Obi-Wan shifted slightly, still as skittish as a pegei colt. "So you found one," he prodded.

"Yes, I found one. If Xanatos could not possibly be at fault, there was only one other possibility."

Obi-Wan sighed, and turned his face up toward the sky, where pearlescent wisps of bright saffron and jade were splashed across the face of heaven. "Forgive me, Master Jinn, but I've heard this psycho-babble before. If he could not be flawed, then the flaw must have been yours . . . yada, yada, yada. Correct?"

Qui-Gon smiled. "How easily it falls from your lips, Padawan! I could wish it had fallen so easily from my heart."

But Obi-Wan was growing more weary by the moment. "Look," he said abruptly, "You've told me nothing that I didn't already know and . . . I am sorry for what you endured, but it doesn't change anything. It doesn't change the fact that you looked at me, and saw a . . ."

"What I saw was a reflection of yesterday, Padawan. What I saw was what Xanatos became, and what would allow me to try to go back and atone for my mistakes."

The young Jedi turned his head slowly to stare at his former Master. "No," he said softly. "You saw someone so pathetic, so weak and greedy, that he would be willing to sacrifice a child to get what he wanted. That's what you saw, Qui-Gon."

"No, I . . . ."

"Do _not_ lie to me!" It was a cry torn from the pits of the boy's soul. "I saw it in your mind. I saw what you thought; I saw myself, as you saw me, as a contemptible weakling." The cry became a sob. "As an obstacle to be . . .discarded."

Qui-Gon stepped forward, closing the distance which had opened up between them. "Yes. I did. But what I saw, and what was real, are two different things, Obi-Wan. I never let myself believe in you, because it was . . ."

"Less frightening," said the young man, "to believe that I was also flawed. That I would turn just as he did, and that the fault would be my own."

Hearing the tremor in that brave young voice, the Master moved closer and slowly, tentatively enclosed the boy in the circle of his arms. "Maybe you were right." It was no more than a whisper, and Qui-Gon might almost have believed that it was only in his imagination.

But it wasn't, as a quick look into Obi-Wan's eyes confirmed; there was desolation there, and a bottomless, endless pain.

"No," said Qui-Gon soothingly. "I was not right. I was never right, from the very beginning. From the first day I rejected you as my padawan, because I was a lonely, frightened old fool. I was always wrong, and you . . . you were the treasure of my life, the central purpose of my existence that I was too stupid to grasp."

Feeling exhaustion creeping through him, Obi-Wan lowered his head until it rested against Qui-Gon's shoulder, as it had so many times before, for so many different reasons. "And now?" he asked softly.

The Master drew a deep shaky breath. "Now I get to use an old cliché, my Obi-Wan. Now my eyes are opened, and I see you, truly see you, as I should have always seen you."

The young man closed his eyes. "A moment of truth, huh?"

"Yes, a moment of truth. Ultimate truth; the truth that tells me, finally, that I could not love you more if you were my own flesh and blood, and that I have always loved you thus. I just didn't know it."

Obi-Wan straightened and stared up into the Master's eyes, and Qui-Gon sensed the young Jedi's weariness. For a moment, the Master hoped that the exhaustion was symbolic of the boy's willingness to concede his resistance and take his place at his mentor's side.

It wasn't. "Until the next time?" asked that quiet, tired, cultured voice.

"What?" said the Master, uneasily. "What do you . . ."

"Until the next Xani comes along," said Obi-Wan. "Or the next Tahl. Or the next whoever it might be to supplant my place in your heart."

"No, Obi, it won't . . ."

"Yes." There was absolute, grim certainty in the boy's tone. "It will. There will always be someone, somewhere, waiting to claim your loyalty, your devotion. It's just the way things are with you, and with me."

"Obi-Wan," said the Master, growing somewhat desperate now. "I need you. I don't think I can . . . "

"Sure you can," interrupted the young Jedi. "It's not like you haven't been alone before. You've always been alone" - he reached out and touched the Master's chest - "in here. Xanatos was the only exception. You never let me in, or anyone else, until Xani came along. You don't need me, Master; you need someone who never existed; someone who was never real. The perfect padawan. Who knows; if you keep looking, maybe you'll even find him someday. But he won't be me; that's for sure."

He turned to go, surprised to find that the light was almost completely gone from the sky.

"Obi-Wan, please," said Qui-Gon. "Don't turn away from us. You're a Jedi; someday you'll be a great Jedi knight."

Obi-Wan managed a small, tight smile. "I don't think I can afford it, Master Jinn. I think maybe the cost is just too great."

"I can . . ."

"Don't you get it!" snapped Obi-Wan, finally at the end of whatever small amount of patience he had possessed when this conversation had begun - months ago, or so it now seemed. "I can't face it again. I can't go through this again. Over and over and over, I've lived through this. I can't." His voice sank to a whisper. "I've lost you for the last time, Master; I won't let myself lose you again."

Qui-Gon stepped close again, and braced his hands on the young man's shoulders. "You don't have to, Padawan." He paused, pushing down hard on the agony flaring within him, as he sought the right words. "With my assistance, you can form another training bond - a bond as strong and as open as the one we shared; stronger even, and without the shadows that tainted ours."

Obi-Wan shook his head, feeling the spike of pain in his forehead. "You severed the bond. It's . . . "

Qui-Gon smiled, and sent a wave of soothing energy into the boy's mind, sending the headache spiraling into oblivion. "Do you really believe," he said gently, "that a bond which has endured for all those years - and which can stretch across a galaxy, if necessary - could be so easily and irrevocably severed?"

"I felt it tear," replied the young Jedi.

The Master nodded. "Yes, you did, but the roots are still there. Reach into your mind, and you'll find them. They're silent now, but they can be awakened again. If you allow it, I can . . ."

The boy stiffened abruptly and jerked free of the Master's grip. "Don't you dare," he almost snarled. "Don't even think about it."

"Obi-Wan, please," said Qui-Gon. "I only want . . ."

"Yes. That's what this is all about, isn't it? What the great Qui-Gon Jinn wants!"

Qui-Gon did not try to restrain the boy; he merely stared at him with dark, brooding eyes. "Tell me then, Obi-Wan. What do _you_ want?"

"Doesn't matter," replied the young Jedi, turning away.

"It does, to me."

Obi-Wan paused, and lifted his eyes to the splendor of the evening sky. "I want," he said softly, "to be the padawan you wanted me to be. The perfect padawan . . . and I want it to be last month, or last year. I want to be fourteen again. I want to believe in possibility again, like before. Before it was too late."

"But it's not . . ."

"Yes." He turned back to gaze into Qui-Gon's eyes, and there was no disputing the grim certainty in his face. "It is. I don't know what will happen to us now, Master Jinn. Maybe I'll even change my mind and go back to the Temple with you. Maybe I'll even become your padawan again. But it will never be as it was. I will never be as I was, because I no longer believe in your commitment to me. I always did, you know. Even at all those times when you rejected me, or turned your back on me. Even after Melida/Daan. I believed that you wanted to help me become a Jedi knight; I just thought maybe I wasn't worthy, so you didn't have much choice."

He turned away and paused for just a moment before walking away into the growing twilight. "I don't believe that any more."

************* ******************** ***************

"I won't lie to you, Obi," said the captain of the _Lady Ghost_. "This could be a suicide run."

Obi-Wan almost smiled. "As opposed to all the milk runs I've had so far? I mean, let me think. In the last week, I've been blasted, blistered, bombed, bullied, beleaguered, bitched at, and nearly buggered. A little run planetside seems like a piece of cake."

But Fer'mia was in no mood to be cosseted. "Get serious, Kid. This is no milk run. You'll be going into hostile territory, so hostile that one look is all the locals are going to need to try to separate your pretty little head from that fetching little body, unless, of course, they can manage to take you alive, and make much better use of your charms."

"Rain," said Obi-Wan softly, "it's the _Angel_. Do you really think they can even spot her, much less catch her?"

The Drimulan's eyes were hard and brittle. "You don't know what kind of people you're dealing with, Obi. Just because you're Jedi doesn't mean there aren't people who can handle you, especially when some of them might have access to certain powers, as well."

Obi-Wan sighed. "You're talking about N'Vell Aji, aren't you?"

Fer'mia nodded. "Charming woman. Sith-spawned, no doubt."

The young Jedi smiled. "You just let me worry about her and the mission. My _Angel_ will take care of the rest."

But Fer'mia was shaking his head. "You're not going in alone, Obi. I can't risk that. If something happens to you, there has to be someone else who can fly that ship out of there. And, there's the added factor that you can use some help shielding the ship from detection."

Obi-Wan stiffened. "You're not proposing . . ."

"I'm not proposing anything," said the captain firmly. "I'm giving you a direct order. The other Jedi go with you, including Master Jinn."

"My ship," snapped Obi-Wan.

Fer'mia smiled. "My war, and you _will_ follow my orders, or I'll confine you to the brig, and let your pretty little padawan buddy pilot your ship to the surface."

The young Jedi frowned. "You know I could just . . ."

"I know you could," said the captain, "but if you refuse to let her fly, then there's no way to go in for those refugees. Are you going to condemn them to die, just because you can't stand to be within a hundred meters of your former Master?"

"You know," said Obi-Wan, "you and Master Ramal have a lot in common."

"How's that?"

"He fucking fights dirty too."

Fer'mia chuckled. "Haven't you heard, Little Jedi? All is fair in war."

"OK, OK," replied Obi-Wan. "I'll take the . . . I'll take him with me. Now what's the mission?"

The captain smiled. "You're going to rescue the messiah of my people, Obi-Wan, who also happens to be Jhevaghn's father. And you're going to bring out her son, while there's still some small hope of saving his life. And you're going to have to fly right down their throats to do it, because there's no way the boy can be transported to another pick-up site. Bad enough you're going to have to move him over a distance of several kilometers, just to get him to an accessible landing site."

Obi-Wan rose. "OK. When do we go?"

Fer'mia regarded the young Jedi with a small smile. "You could refuse this mission, you know. The risk factor is . . ."

"Off the scale?" Obi-Wan grinned.

"You could say that. So if you'd rather not . . .'

"Why are you even asking me that? You have to know the answer already, so . . "

"Just making sure everything's up front," replied Fer'mia firmly.

Obi-Wan nodded. "One thing no one's ever going to accuse you of, Captain, is sneakiness."

The captain allowed a glow of satisfaction to settle in his eyes as he turned to a locked cabinet behind his desk, opened it and retrieved a dusty bottle containing a thick, purplish liquid. "Happily, the same can be said of you, my young friend. Shall we celebrate our glorious mission with a little toast?"

" _'Our'_ glorious mission?" echoed Obi-Wan.

"Our glorious mission." The conviction in Fer'mia's tone was steel-plated.

Obi-Wan rose and moved forward to lean over the captain's desk, bracing his fists against its surface. "I respect you, Captain," he said firmly. "And I believe in what you're doing here; I wouldn't be here if I didn't. And I'll follow your orders, usually without question, because you obviously know what the hell you're doing. But, if you think I'm taking you with me when I fly into that hornet's nest, you've got a whole headful of loose screws. No fucking way!"

"My war." Fer'mia figured it had worked once; might as well try it again.

But no such luck. "My ship," said Obi-Wan, with a smile, "and this time, the final word is mine. And if you refuse to accept my terms, then she doesn't fly, for anybody."

Fer'mia heaved a sigh. "Dyprio isn't the only one who fights dirty," he grumbled.

 

***************** *************** ****************

They had flown in under cover of darkness, to a snug little clearing tucked into the edge of a small forest bordering a swampy lowland, and then spent several hours camouflaging the sleek silhouette of the _Angel._ Thus it was near dawn when they were ready to begin their trek through the low march of foothills to reach the area in which the refugees were waiting.

Flying in had been no great challenge, as the _Angel_ , with an air of self-confidence that bordered on arrogance, set herself to evade the planetary scanners and sensor sweeps. The ship had informed Obi-Wan that, so long as no one suspected its existence, it could continue to evade detection indefinitely. Of course, it only took one tiny mishap - or one pair of eyes gazing out the wrong window at the wrong moment - to change everything for the worse.

As they prepared to disembark, Ciara was busy imitating a thundercloud, ready to burst into a frenzy.

"I don't see why I have to be the one to stay here," she complained, for at least the dozenth time, thought Obi-Wan.

"Ciara," began her Master. 

"Can't I just smack her?" asked Obi-Wan, with a grin, also for at least the dozenth time.

"You and what gundark?" she snapped.

"Are you children quite finished?" asked Master Ramal.

Standing by the exit hatch, Qui-Gon Jinn could not quite conceal the twitch of a smile as he watched the interaction between the two padawans. It brought back a wealth of tender memories.

"We're losing the shadows," he said softly, gesturing toward the exterior of the ship where the auroral glow of sunrise was steadily growing brighter.

Obi-Wan and Solitaire shouldered their packs and checked their weapons as Master Ramal eyed his padawan sternly. "Ciara," he said firmly, "you know someone has to stay and guard the _Angel_ , and it won't do much good if whoever is here can't fly her, if the need arises. She's used to you; you're the logical choice."

Gracelessly, the girl sprawled in the co-pilot's seat and glared at the rescue party.

"Be nice," muttered Obi-Wan, not quite under his breath, as he winked at her. "And I'll bring you a souvenir."

She leaned forward and half-rose to whisper in his ear. "Go fuck yourself, Kenobi."

He grinned. "I was waiting for you to take care of that, Luv."

She hooted with laughter. "In your dreams, you arrogant clod."

They exchanged smiles, and something more; an assurance, a soothing touch, a promise. It was a very old ritual between them.

When the rescue party strode away into the gloom of the forest, Ciara Barosse set herself to wait, with a grimace. It was absolutely the worst part of being a Jedi.

************* **************** ****************

The morning air was quite cool, but very moist, and, in a short period of time, the hikers began to adjust their clothing and the supplies they carried to allow for greater freedom of movement and comfort. The Jedi Masters doffed their voluminous robes and tucked them into utility bags that they wore over their shoulders, and Obi-Wan removed first the leather jacket and then the long-sleeved tunic beneath it, leaving him in suede trousers and a soft linen undertunic. Jebbitz, who brought up the rear of their little party, and who was present on this mission for the simple reason that he had absolutely refused to get off the ship when Obi-Wan had ordered him to, was similarly clad. Only Solitaire remained fully covered, and Obi-Wan hoped her armor was equipped with cooling vents. 

They walked for a distance of about two kilometers before the Jedi sensed a disturbance ahead of them, and they moved off the path which they had been following and faded into the forest.

The bucolic quiet of the forest floor gave way rapidly to the clank and rattle of some type of heavy machinery, accompanied by shouts and harsh, guttural voices.

The Jedi, in the way of Jedi everywhere, simply faded into their surroundings, using the Force to mask their presence. And, though neither Jebbitz nor Solitaire commanded any Force abilities, both were sufficiently skilled in the arts of war and camouflage that they were able to conceal themselves with ease. Jebbitz, however, made sure that he did so within arm's length of his responsibility.

They called them 'Peacekeepers', according to the information provided by Jhevaghn; it had to be somebody's idea of a joke, thought Obi-Wan.

The mercenaries who advanced through the forest were as heavily armed as any he had ever encountered. They were also very tall, with long limbs and heavy muscles, and very loud, constantly shouting at each other, and at the occupants of a small, wooden cart, with obvious belligerence.

The patrol consisted of two dozen soldiers; the cart contained three captives, all very small, very frail, and obviously badly frightened. One, a little girl with hair the color of fresh water in sunlight, was sobbing wildly, trying, without success, to calm herself as a broad-chested mercenary with hair like coarse silver straw glared at her.

There was no warning.

One moment, the procession was making its way through the wooded area, yelling and gesturing wildly at each other, some of them passing within a meter or two of the concealed rescue party. The next moment, the three children were dead, their heads struck from their shoulders with one deadly, scythelike blow.

There was a moment of pure silence, and Obi-Wan drew breath to break it, with a blood-curdling bellow.

They would later realize that it was Qui-Gon Jinn who saved them all, for it was extremely doubtful that even the presence of two Jedi Masters would have been sufficient to save the five members of the rescue team from slaughter by the heavily armed, battle-hardened soldiers. Moving invisibly, in total silence, the Master grabbed his former padawan, and enclosed him in a smothering embrace, shielding him completely from the eyes and senses of the milling soldiers.

The patrol moved on shortly, leaving the decapitated bodies hanging over the branches of a tree; a warning, no doubt, of the folly of resistance.

In their wake, for several minutes, silence reigned, as every one of the outworlders fought to regain composure and to resist the urge to scream out their rage and frustration and race forward to wreak vengeance on the perpetrators of such evil. Master Jinn continued to hold his former apprentice against his chest, soothing the tremors that gripped that strong, slender body, until he felt the young man cease to struggle and begin to seek out his calm center.

Obi-Wan fought to catch his breath and managed finally to stand erect without staggering. When he could do so, he moved forward to retrieve the head of the little blonde girl, before extracting her body from the tree limb with infinite gentleness. 

He said nothing as he removed a small shovel from his pack and began to dig. Masters Ramal and Qui-Gon exchanged a brief glance, each realizing that it might be wiser to leave the bodies undisturbed, but one look at Obi-Wan convinced them that this was not an option. 

Jebbitz was the first to move to help him.

It didn't take long to dig the three small graves; the ground was soft and free of stones.

When the task was done, they retrieved their packs and paused for a moment of silence before moving on.

"Are you all right, Obi-Wan?" asked Qui-Gon Jinn, concerned with the unnatural pallor of his former padawan's face.

"No," came the answer. "I'm not all right. Who could be all right in such a world? How can people do such horrible things?"

Qui-Gon laid a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder as they resumed their journey. "I don't know, Padawan. If we ever find the answer to that, maybe there'll no longer be a reason for the Jedi to exist."

"You saved my life," said the young man, very softly.

The fingers on his shoulder tightened. "As you've saved mine, every day since the day I met you."

For a moment, Obi-Wan paused and just stared at the towering Master; and Qui-Gon almost held his breath, waiting for whatever the young Jedi needed to say.

But, in the end, he said nothing, shrugging the Master's hand from his shoulder and walking away.

Qui-Gon sighed and followed, and knew it was going to be a very long day.

***************** ***************** ****************  
tbc


	29. Fading to Black and White

Chapter 29: Fading to Black and White

 

_I can't light no more of your darkness._  
_All my pictures seem to fade to black and white._  
_I'm growing tired and time stands still before me_  
_Frozen here on the ladder of my life._

\---- _Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me_ \-- Music by Elton John,  
Lyrics by Bernie Taupin

 

The 'safe house' wasn't a house, and how safe it was, was a matter of opinion. In the opinion of Qui-Gon Jinn, the final assessment was - not very.

After arriving at the designated site, and displaying a pre-arranged signal, involving a small blue pennant and the topmost limbs of an extremely tall tree, the team had been intercepted by a cadre of Resistance fighters, who had almost managed to take the Jedi by surprise. Only the murmur of the Force itself had provided any foreknowledge of their approach, and even that had been subdued and slightly confused.

Which left Obi-Wan to conclude that these warriors were extremely skilled - and extremely dangerous.

When the new arrivals were escorted to the hideaway, they were braced by the four-member team that had greeted them, and it did not require Jedi senses to realize that the arrangement was as much to guard against any actions they might take, as to guard them from any outside assault.

The 'safe house' was a cave, with an entrance concealed behind the boiling torrent of a waterfall.

The Drimulans seemed to be fairly complacent about the security of their little natural sanctuary, but both Ramal Dyprio and Qui-Gon Jinn looked less than impressed. Though the waterfall prevented any casual pedestrian from seeing into the cave, it also prevented anyone within from seeing out, and the roar of the turbulent cascade served to mask all sounds in the area, whether indigenous or not.

Obi-Wan approached the cave entrance without exhibiting any apparent qualms, but Qui-Gon knew it was not because he was unaware of basic defense parameters. Rather, the young man was still distracted, still hollow-eyed and stricken by the scene they had witnessed in the forest.

The Master paused outside the narrow aperture, eyes sweeping the perimeter of the small glade, as Ramal Dyprio stepped off the thin trail and gazed up the jagged tumble of stone slabs that comprised the hillside.

"Is he all right?" said the Corellian, just loudly enough to be heard over the roar of the waterfall.

Qui-Gon didn't pretend to misunderstand. He smiled ruefully. "Do you ever find yourself forgetting how young they really are?"

Dyprio's eyes were soft with affection. "Only ten times a day. Then, she does something completely remarkable, something knights twice her age couldn't even do and I'm humbled that such an exquisite being should call me, Master."

"He's very shaken," said Qui-Gon, finally. "No matter how much horror he's seen - and you certainly know he's seen more than his share - he's never quite learned to deflect the pain."

The Corellian Master chuckled softly. "And would you really want him to?"

"No, it's part of what makes him who he is. But it takes too much out of him, makes him risk too much."

Dyprio, much to his own surprise, reached out and laid a huge hand on Master Jinn's shoulder. "Don't fret, Qui-Gon. Too soon, they'll be just as hardened and jaded as we are."

Qui-Gon heard - and understood - the gentle irony. In truth, a Jedi never learned how not to feel the pain of the suffering around him; he simply learned to sublimate it, and function in spite of it. In time, Obi-Wan and Ciara would learn the same; it was a development devoutly to be wished. But it was also something of a rite of passage; a barrier which, once breached, would forever separate them from the sweetest tenderness of youth. Like so many things in the Jedi philosophy, it was both blessing and curse.

"Master Jinn?" The voice was a rich baritone, but the tone was tentative.

Qui-Gon turned to look at the hulking Corellian assigned by Arain Fer'mia to protect Obi-Wan, a man whose towering stature even managed to dwarf that of the Jedi Master.

"Yes?" 

There was silence for several long seconds as Jebbitz considered his words. Finally, he took a deep breath and spoke in a rush. "You saved Obi back there, and I thank you, for doing my job for me. I never saw anything like that before."

Qui-Gon favored the big bodyguard with a gentle smile. "Jebbitz - that IS your name, isn't it?" The Corellian merely nodded. "Hasn't Obi-Wan explained to you that he really doesn't require a protector?"

Jebbitz responded with a lopsided smile. "Only twice a day."

"Then - forgive me - but why are you . . ."

"Jedi still die, sometimes," he said, his tone brooking no denial. "Don't they?"

The Master smiled. "They do, but that's a risk every Jedi takes, every day of his life. If you insulate him from that, you risk taking away what makes him Jedi."

"Uh, huh!" The Corellian was - patently - not impressed.

Qui-Gon sighed, and tried again. "If you risk yourself to save him, you're not doing him any favor."

"Uh, huh!" That seemed to be the extent of the bodyguard's repertory of responses.

Ramal Dyprio cleared his throat. "I think we're making our hosts nervous," he said quietly. "Better get inside."

And, indeed, the Drimulan resistance fighters seemed uneasy and loathe to linger any longer than necessary at the cave entrance.

With one last glance at the big Corellian, Qui-Gon decided to accept defeat with as much grace as possible, and walked into the cavern.

**************** **************** ****************

"You are the Jedi?" The voice was strident, harsh, compelling.

"One of them," replied Obi-Wan squinting slightly to compensate for dim, uneven lighting.

"Have you healing skills?" The speaker was an elderly woman, thin as reeds but with large, capable hands and skin as weathered as rough leather.

"All Jedi have some such skill, but I'm not a particularly strong healer. What do you . . ."

"One of the others, then," she continued, ignoring his question. "Is there a skilled healer among them?"

"No, but we still may be able to help. What do you need?"

She stared at him coldly. "It should be obvious that I require nothing, Jedi, but there is one among us who is in dire need."

Obi-Wan sighed. He had dreaded this moment since he had learned about the injured child. The truth was that none of the Jedi present was particularly gifted in the healing arts, although all could provide basic care, if necessary. The two Masters, by virtue of greater experience, would probably be more effective in initiating healing than he, himself, would, but even they could accomplish little beyond the basics. The boy would undoubtedly need much more than that, but he _was_ a boy, not so much younger than Obi-Wan, and thus, it might be easier for the child to bond with the young Jedi than with one of the Masters. Such a bond could facilitate healing.

"Take me to him," said the former padawan finally, on a soft sigh.

Intent on following the woman deeper into the labyrinthine maze of the cave, he didn't notice that his former Master trailed behind him.

A small rough alcove had been converted into a sickroom for the Drimulan child, and the first thing that struck Obi-Wan when he entered was the smell; it required every ounce of Jedi discipline not to recoil from the odor of necrotic flesh. The elderly woman - Noreilan, she had named herself - obviously recognized his difficulty, and the stern look in her eyes softened slightly, as she watched him move to the side of the makeshift medical bed.

The boy was small for his age, and painfully thin, with huge, soft gray eyes - vacant and unfocussed - fine dark hair that clung to his skull like a cap, and skin so pale and thin it was almost transparent.

"Hello, Devlyn," said the young Jedi, very softly, allowing his eyes to drift down over the tiny, ravaged body to come to rest where there should have been knobby knees and slender calves and, probably, over-sized feet if the boy were growing the way Obi-Wan himself had just a few short years earlier, but where those appendages should have been there was only something else, something strange and misshapen.

The boy simply grunted, and tried to focus his vision on the newcomer, but he gave up the effort shortly.

Obi-Wan grasped the coarse sheet that was draped over the boy, and looked back at Noreilan. "May I?"

She nodded sharply and turned her face away. Obviously, she had already seen what he was about to see, and had no wish to see it again.

He pulled the sheet back and managed, by virtue of every ounce of strength he had, not to fall to his knees or reel away from the carnage. One foot was gone entirely, along with the ankle and half of the calf. The other was still present, but laid open to the bone, from instep to knee. The flesh was mangled and shredded and thick with debris in the form of dark bits of sharp metal that were imbedded deep within the wound. Obviously, some attempt had been made to clean and sterilize the injury, and bacta patches had been applied, though without much success. The damage was simply too extensive to be remedied by such limited measures.

The boy, thankfully, seemed unaware of the severity of the carnage, and Obi-Wan wondered what kind of drug was being pumped into his system through the portable infusion unit that dangled above the bed. Whatever it was, it had to be extremely powerful, so powerful that he wondered if it was safe, given the boy's precarious condition. A quick Force scan revealed that all vital signs were depressed, dangerously depressed.

"The drug," he said softly. "You have to take him off the drug."

Noreilan leaned forward. "Look, Jedi, we don't even have a real medic here, so we do the best we can. That drug is the only thing that kept him sane. He was like an animal when we brought him in. I've never heard screams like that. I won't allow . . ."

"I can reduce his pain," said the Jedi, "and between the three of us, we can probably stabilize him, but this drug will kill him, and quickly, if you insist on giving it to him."

A sudden disturbance, in both the Force and in a dark corner of the alcove, grabbed Obi-Wan's attention as a tall, dark figure moved forward with extraordinary grace and speed and reached out with wide, long-fingered hands. The young Jedi shifted to meet the abrupt movement, to defend against it if necessary, when the palms of those hands grasped the back of his neck and somehow propelled him to his knees. As he went down, he looked up, and was lost in eyes as dark as the space between the stars, but containing glints of the fire of creation. 

Qui-Gon Jinn stood motionless in the entrance to the alcove, frozen by the tableau laid out before him; his padawan on his knees, gripped physically and mentally by the figure towering over him, eyes wide and filled with what might have been wonder - and might just as easily have been fear.

The woman, Noreilan, gestured for the Master to stay where he was, but he wasn't entirely sure he trusted her either, and this was his beloved padawan; whether or not said beloved padawan acknowledged that connection at this particular moment was entirely immaterial.

Qui-Gon started to move forward, just as the man who grasped the boy released his hold, and stepped back. "Do as he says," said the man in a voice that, if raised in fury, could have shaken the foundations of the world. "There is no darkness in him."

"Obi-Wan," said the Jedi Master softly, moving to lift the boy to his feet, "are you all right?"

For several moments, it appeared that the young Jedi would not answer, as he simply stood and stared at the man who had accosted him so suddenly.

"Who are you?" he said finally, eyes still wide and filled with wonder.

"I'm called Mer'lioz," came the answer, and the man moved again, out of the shadows and into the small amount of light within the cavern.

Obi-Wan managed a shaky laugh. "You're the one, the one Rain called the Messiah."

That elicited a deep, rich chuckle. "My nephew tends to the dramatic. I am no Messiah, child. Only a simple man, fighting to preserve my simple way of life."

"You're a Force user," said Obi-Wan, still overwhelmed by the sensations he had experienced when the Drimulan had linked with his mind.

Mer'lioz regarded the Jedi with a small smile. "That's what you call it. For me, it is simply the practice of the art of my religion. I'm a Brak'lira priest, Little One. With some small facility in telepathy."

"Small?" Obi-Wan grinned. "It felt like a laser searchlight going through my mind."

"I didn't hurt you?" The man sounded alarmed.

"No, nothing like that, but it was amazing, nonetheless."

In the dim light of glowglobes, Obi-Wan could see the resemblance now, to Rain and to Jarielle. The coloring was similar, although the eyes were very different, but the cheekbones were unmistakable, high and pronounced, and the set of the jaw was identical. But Mer'lioz had obviously endured some trials that his younger relations had been spared, trials that had left scars that no amount of time or remedial treatment would erase.

Time had silvered his hair, and lined his face, but Obi-Wan found him very beautiful and possessed of a grace and dignity that the young man had never before encountered, not even among the Jedi.

"Can you help my grandson, Jedi?" 

Obi-Wan sighed and turned to look at his former Master. "I don't know," he answered.

In response to the request in the boy's eyes, Qui-Gon moved to the bed and gazed down at the horrible damage to the child's limbs. Like Obi-Wan before him, he closed his eyes and reached out through the Force. When he opened his eyes, Obi-Wan was not encouraged by the misgivings he read within them.

The Master turned to study the face of the Drimulan priest. "Can you contact him telepathically?"

Mer'lioz nodded. "But I have been unable to relieve his suffering."

Qui-Gon raised his eyes to stare into those of his former padawan. "Obi-Wan, Master Ramal and I should be able to accomplish some healing, or at least prevent further deterioration, but someone must help him shield against the pain while we do so."

"I understand, Mas . . . I understand."

Qui-Gon deliberately ignored the slip of the tongue. "You'll need to allow Mer'lioz to take you in, so your alien presence doesn't add to his fear. Understand?"

Obi-Wan nodded.

Qui-Gon regarded him in silence momentarily, before stepping forward and speaking softly, for Obi-Wan's hearing only. "His pain is very great, Padawan, and you won't be able to shield from it completely, if you're protecting him. Are you sure you're up to this?"

Bright, crisp anger flared in blue-green eyes. "I am a Jedi, Master Jinn, or so I've been told. Or are you so unsure of my abilities?"

But Qui-Gon was not going to allow himself to be baited. "Your abilities, Young One, have never been in question. That, even you must admit. I simply wish to offer to reinforce your shielding, to spare you unnecessary pain. In situations like this, it's standard operating procedure, as you well know."

Obi-Wan had the grace to flush. "Yes. It is. I . . apologize, Master Jinn."

Qui-Gon nodded, and managed, barely, to conceal the slight tremor in his hands as he lifted them to grasp his former padawan's face with aching gentleness. Obi-Wan was not nearly as calm as he pretended to be, and that fact became obvious the instant he allowed the Master to penetrate his mental shields.

Qui-Gon - somehow - succeeded in suppressing the cry of pain and longing he felt as that familiar presence opened to him, but he thought the boy probably heard it anyway, as he poured reinforcing energy into Obi-Wan's shielding.

Moments later, the Master stepped away and was only rendered incapable of speech or action for the space of a heartbeat, an achievement of some merit in light of the intensity of the stimulus. To feel that precious consciousness open to him as a flower might open to the light of morning almost undid him completely. And Obi-Wan, in truth, wasn't any less affected, but, since he had been on the receiving end of the energy-sharing, he was not required to speak.

And he didn't, and almost certainly couldn't have anyway.

Qui-Gon finally nodded, rather gracelessly, and moved away to fetch Ramal Dyprio to assist in the healing effort.

In the meantime, Mer'lioz stared into Obi-Wan's eyes for several seconds, then glanced toward the opening through which Qui-Gon had disappeared. His voice, when he approached the young Jedi, was infinitely gentle, and as patient as the ages. "Come, Little One. You will help to heal my beloved grandson, and then, perhaps, I will help to heal your heart."

Obi-Wan smiled quickly, and ducked his head, slightly embarrassed. "That's not necessary," he replied. "Helping your grandson is what I'm here to do."

The elderly Drimulan leaned forward slowly and pressed his forehead against the younger man's. "You may live your life without love, Young Jedi, and never know pain. And when it ends, what will you have to remember?"

"Serenity," answered Obi-Wan, instinctively.

But Mer'lioz simply smiled. "Or emptiness, Child. Complete emptiness."

When the two Jedi Masters returned, Noreilan stepped forward, eyes wide and sparking with determination. "Parai," she said firmly, "are you sure? So far we have managed to keep him alive. What if . . ."

"Alive?" echoed Mer'lioz. "Noreilan, do you seriously believe that this drugged endless nightmare is life?"

"Perhaps not," she snapped, "but it is also not death. Jhevaghn may not . . ."

"Jhevaghn," he answered softly, "is my daughter, and this child . . this child is dearer to me than the breath of my body. But he must be healed, if he is to have a chance at any kind of life beyond a painful stupor."

The woman was torn between her loyalty to this priest who was obviously a revered leader of the Resistance, and her concerns for both the boy and his mother. Finally, she nodded slightly, fixed each of the Jedi with a glare that could only be interpreted as a warning of dire consequences should they fail in their efforts, and moved out of the alcove.

"What did she call you?" asked Obi-Wan, his eyes now locked with those of the injured boy.

"Parai," replied Mer'lioz, translating with a self-deprecating smile. "Father."

Obi-Wan released the gaze he was holding momentarily and looked at the Drimulan with a plea for help in his eyes, a plea that somehow went far beyond the situation of the moment. "Very well, Parai. Please introduce me to your grandson."

Ramal Dyprio was probably the only person in the room who noticed a bloom of torment swelling in Qui-Gon Jinn's eyes, but he said nothing, and also ignored the other Jedi Master's painful attempt to swallow in a mouth gone suddenly desert dry.

The Drimulan priest positioned himself and Obi-Wan on either side of the sickbed, and placed the young Jedi's hands, entwined with his own, against the boy's temples.

The Masters waited, and Qui-Gon watched the expression of his former padawan, understanding that the apprentice's face would let them know when to begin. The signal would not be subtle; not even a Jedi of formidable abilities, which Obi-Wan was, would be able to completely deflect the massive shock and pain of such horrible injuries. The only way for him to aid the mangled child was to take a substantial portion of that agony into his own mind, to endure it in the boy's place. He would be allowed to channel it into the Force, but the initial contact would be brutal and excruciating, and it would take some time for him to strike the perfect balance between taking the pain from the child and letting it drain away into the Force.

Within the bond between the young Jedi and the elderly Drimulan, there was, at first, only a lovely, golden warmth and a deep sense of balance; Obi-Wan thought he might want to stay in this place forever, and heard the sound of gentle laughter. _You would quickly grow bored and restless, Little One. Such a contemplative life is not for you._

 _But it is - for you._ Obi-Wan wasn't sure just how he knew that.

Even in the mental bond, it was possible to hear a sigh of mourning. _It was once. Long ago. That life is no longer possible, I fear._

 _This war will end._ Obi-Wan's certainty was beyond question. _And you will be able to go back to the life you had before._

The young Jedi almost imagined he felt a fond embrace through the bond. _Bless you, Child, for caring. And I hope you are correct. I hope this war will end, but there can be no going back, for I am no longer the person I once was. Just as you are no longer the person you were, before you came here. Before you allowed yourself to be cut out of a life that means more to you than your own._

_I didn't . . ._  


_Be still now, my young friend, for it is time. Devlyn, there is someone here to meet you, Child. Someone who can help you. You must give me your hand._

Obi-Wan could see him then, small and frail and very, very frightened, and submerged in a sea of blood-dark scarlet, which could only be the manifestation of his agony.

He saw the boy reach out, so bravely in spite of the torment he endured, and saw his own hand, enclosed in that of his Drimulan companion, close on those little fingers, and almost lost himself in pain of such unimaginable intensity that he had never felt anything like it before. His instinct - every scrap of self-preservation within him - was screaming for him to back away, to save himself, but he knew that if he did, if he allowed himself to recoil, he would never have the courage to approach again, and the child would be alone, spiraling down into the maw of death, in the grip of such terrible agony that no one would be able to aid him in his journey to rejoin the Force.

Fighting off waves of nausea, fighting the weakness of limbs that seemed suddenly transformed to liquid fire, he clung to that little hand, and slowly, extremely slowly, began to draw that crimson cloud away from the child and into his own personal space. His shielding, even reinforced by the Master, felt flimsy and tentative; yet, somehow, it held. Enough, at least, to allow him to extend it around the boy, and huddle there with him, the pain, shrieking now in frustration, momentarily shut out, closed off behind that shimmering barrier. In the process of pushing back the pain, he discovered the small slave tag that had been inserted in the boy's body by his rulers, and was gratified to find that it was located in the damaged tissue of one mangled leg, and had been effectively nullified by the blast. When the healers removed the mangled limb, the tag would go with it. He was grateful that it would require no additional effort from him, since he wasn't entirely sure he would have enough strength to do what must be done.

As the young Jedi, bolstered by a faint surge of strength from Mer'lioz, began to attempt to dissipate the pain and release it, he became aware of the actions of Qui-Gon and Ramal. In one sense, their efforts helped him, as they poured healing energy into the injuries, but, at the same time, they used the Force to remove the foreign matter which had so thoroughly contaminated the wounds, and that part of their procedure produced quick, vicious bites of agony that threatened to overwhelm him.

Still, he held on, and was gratified and slightly surprised to find that the Drimulan priest was able to offer enough assistance to ease his apprehension. He was even able, once or twice, to sense the emotions of the two Masters as they worked in tandem.

The only moment of real risk, when the young Jedi almost lost himself, and the child as well, came when a sudden image rose in his mind, an image of himself, and he realized that he was seeing through his former Master's eyes and hearing his thoughts.

Obi-Wan faltered; it was only a millisecond, but it was almost too much, as both Qui-Gon and Ramal stiffened and drew quick, sharp breaths as fresh, bright blood bloomed around the fingers they were both using to apply pressure to slow the bleeding, allowing the Force sufficient time to complete the healing they had begun.

"Obi-Wan," snapped Qui-Gon, "concentrate!"

He had felt the boy's distraction, and knew exactly what had caused it.

"My fault," he murmured, knowing the padawan would hear, but would not bother to respond.

Within the bond, young Devlyn was looking at Obi-Wan as one might regard a god, come to life from a stone statue. _You're taking my pain, aren't you?_

 _Trying._ The response was not very articulate, but the smile that accompanied it was bright and sincere.

_How are you doing that?_

_Through the Force._ He was definitely not going to get any awards for extemporaneous speaking today.

_Can I do it?_

_Devlyn._ The grandfather's tone was fond, but firm. _Don't distract him. What he's doing is very difficult, and you'll hurt him if you persist._

 _No. 'S okay._ Obi-Wan managed another smile, hoping to keep the boy focused on something, anything, other than his wounds.

_Wow! Who's that?_

The young Jedi saw the image form in the boy's mind, and took a moment to study it. He was startled to realize he couldn't remember the last time he had looked at his Master like that - just looked. Without judgment or censure or preconception.

_He's amazing-looking._

_Yes._ Obi-Wan was not smiling now, but neither was he frowning. _He is._

In all, it took almost two hours, and, when it was finished, young Devlyn slipped into natural, painless slumber, and Obi-Wan Kenobi went down like a felled tree, right into the waiting arms of his former Master.

"He needs to rest now," said Qui-Gon, looking to the Drimulan priest for a response.

"Of course. This way."

Obi-Wan was beginning to stir as Mer'lioz led the way to a small quiet cavern, floored with drifted sand, with a pallet of soft, dried grasses along one side.

"C'n walk," insisted the young man, as Qui-Gon cradled his former student against his chest.

"Of course, you can," replied the Master, exchanging smiles with the Drimulan priest. It was extremely doubtful that the boy would even have been able to stand, much less walk. "Later, you can run a marathon, if you like. But for now . . ."

"What?" It was a mumble, but it was still spirited, and Qui-Gon's smile grew wider.

"Sleep." The Master had absolutely no compunction about augmenting his verbal command with a liberal lacing of Force compulsion.

He settled the youth on the aromatic pallet, and draped his own cloak over him before stepping back and standing motionless, simply looking.

"Quite lovely," said the voice, almost in his ear, "isn't he?"

The Master rubbed his eyes with weary fingers. "Yes, he is. And I'm an old fool just to stand here and stare at him."

Mer'lioz' eyes were bright, and filled with a perception that the Jedi somehow found intimidating.

"He's right, you know." The Drimulan spoke very softly, but with absolute certainty.

"Right about what?"

"You will betray him - again."

Qui-Gon's breath hitched in his throat, and he found, suddenly, that he could not speak. Which was all right, since the Drimulan, apparently, was not finished. "You won't see it that way, of course, as you didn't see it that way this time. But he will, and he'll conclude - again - that it's because he's unworthy."

The Master's eyes flared with anguish. "I've never known anyone more worthy," he replied. "I must make him see . . ."

The Drimulan sighed and laid a gentle hand on Qui-Gon's arm. "Rest easy, Master Jedi; he will forgive you. It's his nature. Every time it happens, he will forgive you, but you need to understand something."

Qui-Gon was so overwhelmed with a sense of relief - and he had no idea why he should put such stock in this priest's pronouncement - that he almost missed the caveat. "What? What must I understand?"

Mer'lioz turned to gaze down once more at the young man sleeping so peacefully now. "Every time it happens, you take something else from him, some piece of himself that he'll never get back. Eventually, if you don't stop this - break this pattern - there'll be nothing left of him but a shell. Empty, hurt, and alone. Perhaps you have been asking the wrong question, all along. Instead of asking if he will always be able to forgive you, perhaps you should ask how long you will be able to forgive yourself."

****************** ****************** *******************

His awakening was not unpleasant; it was just different. He found, suddenly, that his breathing was inhibited, due to a pressure on his chest. A pressure that was . . . wiggling. There was no other word for it.

One eye, tawny lashed and awash in the color of sunlit tropical seas, opened and peered up into a face that might have defined the word 'angelic', if not for the smile that practically screamed, "Mischief!"

An extremely small boy was seated, very comfortably it seemed, astride Obi-Wan's chest, with sharp little elbows planted in the vicinity of the young Jedi's collarbone, gazing raptly into a face just rousing from slumber.

Obi-Wan was careful not to dislodge the child as he came fully awake, and turned his head to look around to see where he was. His last memory was of being linked to Devlyn, and then, very faintly, an impression of being carried through darkness.

The dimness of his surroundings provided few answers. 

Finally, he decided to return his attention to the little one who was so focused on HIM.

"Hi, there, Kiddo," he said softly. "Do I know you, or do you just use everyone you meet for a mattress?"

"Count yourself fortunate," said a deep voice from the shadows beyond the grotto's entrance, "that he didn't decide you'd make an adequate trampoline."

Mer'lioz moved into the pale light provided by one weak glowglobe, and smiled fondly at the child, who was little more than a baby.

"Obi-Wan," he said softly, "this is Cayle. In Drimulan, that means 'heartsong'."

"Heartsong," echoed Obi-Wan, looking up into an exquisitely elfin little face, centered around thick-lashed eyes that glinted almost silver in the gloom of the cavern. "Did you name him?"

Cayle, apparently unimpressed with the conversation, reached forward and put tiny fingers across the young Jedi's lips, and proceeded to drape his torso in such a manner to bring his forehead even with Obi-Wan's chin.

"No," said another voice, more lyrical, but harder somehow. "I did."

Mer'lioz turned, and greeted the new arrival with a smile that contained elements of tension. "Welcome, Daughter. Our little prince has found a new friend."

"So I see." Jhevaghn moved forward, bending to retrieve the child.

"No," said Obi quickly, moving his arms to cradle the baby, "it's okay. Leave him be."

But Jhevaghn frowned. "I think not," she said firmly. "He grows attached too easily, too quickly. And, in a few hours, you'll be gone. Back to your ivory tower."

Obi-Wan was startled into a disbelieving chuckle. "Ivory tower?"

The Drimulan woman picked up her sturdy little son, and plopped him easily atop a cocked hip, where it was obvious he rode often. But still, the child squirmed and reached back toward the young man he had so recently befriended.

"Oooooob!" shrieked Cayle, the sheer volume of his protest sufficient to bring a shower of dirt and small debris down from the roof of the cavern.

Mer'lioz chuckled and retrieved the little boy from his mother, swinging him firmly back down to join Obi-Wan on his makeshift bed. "Daughter," said the Drimulan firmly, when she opened her mouth to protest, "have you nothing to say to our young guest?"

Jhevaghn's eyes were pools of resentment as she stared, first at her father and then, at Obi-Wan. Finally, she dropped her gaze and took a deep shuddering breath. "I'm told by my son that you eased his pain while your friends worked on his injuries."

Obi-Wan merely nodded, eyeing her with obvious misgivings. The anger that radiated off her was almost visible, even in the dimness of the cavern.

"For that, you have my gratitude," she continued, although, in truth, she sounded much more bitter than grateful.

Obi-Wan sat up, and grinned as his tiny companion managed to drape himself across the young Jedi's shoulders. In truth, he wasn't entirely sure just how the boy had managed it, and even wondered if the child might have some vestige of Force control, but, if so, it was so elemental as to be undetectable.

Accessing a tiny bit of Force control himself, he managed to rise without dislodging the child, but found himself somewhat unsteady when he made it to his feet.

Mer'lioz arm was suddenly bracing him, as unyielding as stone, and Obi-Wan sent him thanks through a mental corridor that he had not realized existed until just that moment.

"Come, my friend," said the priest. "You need to renew your strength, and Noreilan, despite being the most sharp-tongued, impatient, browbeating, ball-busting virago this side of Alderaan, can make a souffle out of little more than air and sunlight that will make your heart sing. In other words, let's eat."

*************** ******************* ********************

As it happened, Mer'lioz was not exaggerating. The Drimulan woman, who was, herself, almost emaciated, managed - through slight of hand and sorcery, Obi-Wan decided - to lay a meal before the cave's occupants and their guests that would not have been out of place in any middle-class home on Coruscant. With his new best friend attached to his back like some kind of benign growth, the young Jedi sat cross-legged at a makeshift table of stone slabs in a vast chamber obviously designated as a dining hall, and made short work of a wooden plate piled high with some kind of savory rolls, stuffed with a spicy ground meat mixture; root vegetables baked in the coals of a pracka wood fire, thus infused slightly with the sweet smoky fragrance of the wood; a highly seasoned grain dish, rich with some kind of buttery nuts; and a tart salad of greens, coated with a delicate, aromatic dressing. All through the chamber, Resistance workers and fighters ate with gusto, and regaled each other with stories and jokes and anecdotes, and raucous praise for the master chef. 

Noreilan, apparently engaging in some kind of penance to atone for her initial rudeness, was practically spoon-feeding the young Jedi, and seemed determined to reduce him to waddling-status before the meal was over.

He was almost to that point by the time he had consumed the last bit of salad, the last bite of bread.

That was when the chef brought out dessert, and Obi-Wan could only gape in wonder, then turn to look straight at Qui-Gon Jinn, the person whom he had, until that moment, been studiously avoiding.

"Meringues, Master," he sighed, so stuffed he was miserable, and yet totally unable to resist temptation. Just as, he knew, his (former) Master was.

It was a weakness they shared.

"Yes, Padawan," replied Qui-Gon, almost as miserable as the boy, but warmed immeasurably by the young Jedi's words. "With limlec sauce and jingberries, unless I'm mistaken."

Obi-Wan remembered then; remembered the rift between them; remembered to suppress the warmth in his eyes. Remembered, but was, just slightly, disconcerted by the memory.

Then there was a commotion in the corridor that lead to the depths of the caverns, and a small cheer erupted from the assembled company as Jebbitz moved slowly into the common room, young Devlyn carried gently in his arms. The big Corellian could not have handled the boy more delicately if he had been composed of paper-thin porcelain.

Obi-Wan looked up at Jebbitz as the bodyguard sat the boy carefully at the young Jedi's side. Nobody else, of course, with a couple of exceptions, paid much attention, but the Corellian's face flushed crimson as he read the gentle approval in Obi-Wan's eyes.

Qui-Gon Jinn and Ramal Dyprio exchanged quick smiles, and Solitaire, who had been prowling the perimeter of the underground complex since their arrival, suddenly materialized at Obi's other side and sank down beside him, leaning over to whisper something in his ear.

Master Qui-Gon was looking straight at the two, and saw something . . . odd flare in his former padawan's eyes, something intimate, gone almost before it registered. The Jedi Master turned his attention to Solitaire, who was, as always, inscrutable beyond the mask. But beneath the mask, the Force was as clear and strong as anywhere else, and it was telling him . . . His eyes narrowed abruptly, and his breath caught somewhere at the base of his throat.

Then he smiled, and, when the Weapons Master turned toward him, he nodded slightly, and allowed his awareness to glow in his eyes.

Obi-Wan ducked his head and pretended to be lost in contemplation of his right boot as he murmured, "That's it. You are so-o-o-o busted."

"How? Did you . . ."

But he was shaking his head gently. "He's a Jedi Master, Soli. The only way you fool him, is if he's not looking. And we just gave him reason to look."

Solitaire huffed disgust. "I knew it; the first time I saw you, I knew you were trouble."

Obi-Wan kept his eyes to himself, but couldn't resist the grin. "That's not what you said when we were . . "

"I know what I said," came the response. "Shut up, and eat."

Which was going to be easier said than done, because it was quickly obvious that Cayle, who had evinced no interest in savory pies and veggies and salad, was of an entirely different opinion when it came to meringues, as was Devlyn, who sat quietly eating his luscious dessert, and watched Obi-Wan with something approaching adoration.

The final course of a truly remarkable meal became an ordeal, and, by the time it was over, Obi-Wan had more meringue ON him than in him and was trying to figure out how he'd managed to get limlec sauce in his ear. Cayle was an even bigger mess, but, of course, he was not the least bit concerned; nor was he inclined to release his grip on his new best friend.

In the end, it was Mer'lioz who managed to pry the child away, allowing Obi-Wan to struggle to his feet, valiantly trying to wipe away the damage.

Noreilan watched him, and a rare warmth suffused her eyes. "We have a hot spring," she said softly, "deep in the cave. If you like, you can bathe there."

Qui-Gon, who had been speaking quietly with Master Ramal, moved forward. "By all means, Obi-Wan, take the lady up on her offer."

"Why?" The young Jedi was suddenly suspicious.

Qui-Gon, with a deft, light touch, reached around the young man and recovered a huge blob of meringue, studded with jingberries, from an area distinctly south of his waistline. "Because you look," said the Master, "like a big confection just waiting for a sweet tooth."

The Master then turned to face Solitaire, who had also risen, and favored the Weapons Master with a big wink and a smile, before making his exit from the common room.

Obi-Wan could not - quite - control a gentle chuckle, much to Solitaire's disgust, but the laughter died in his throat as he glanced across the stone table, and met the cold glare of Jhevaghn Fer'mia. The child, Cayle, was now affixed to his mother's shoulder, and rubbing his eyes in the classic childhood gesture of fighting off sleep, but he was still reaching for Obi-Wan periodically, with loud, shrill wails. Jhevaghn was patently NOT pleased.

With a mental equivalent to girding his loins, so to speak, the young Jedi strode around the table, pausing only to make a 'stay put' gesture to Jebbitz who looked as if he were about to intervene, and came to a stop directly in front of the Drimulan woman, just barely outside her personal space, and returned her stare in equal measure, coldly, firmly.

"Madam," he said quietly, mindful of the child's growing drowsiness, "if I've done something to offend you, I apologize. However . . ."

"Madam?" she interrupted, with heavy sarcasm. "Madam? You look at me like I'm lower than a worm's belly, but you still call me, 'Madam'. So tell me, Jedi - what does that make you?"

"I don't understand," he replied. "What makes you think . . ."

"It's in your eyes," she almost spat at him.

"No," he answered. "You're wrong. I wouldn't . . ."

"Wouldn't judge me; is that what you were going to say?"

"Yes."

She paused to glance at the baby now sleeping soundly against her shoulder. "Then tell me, little Jedi. When you found out what I am, what I do to keep my place here, and who I serve, tell me what was the first question that popped into your virginal little mind."

Obi-Wan felt impaled by her gaze, and fought an impulse to cringe away from that steely glare. "I don't know," he responded. "I think I wondered how you could stand it."

She narrowed her eyes, and smiled, but there was no warmth or mirth in her face. "No," she disagreed. "That wasn't your first question. Your second, maybe, which speaks fairly well of you. But it wasn't your first, and you don't have a clue now, what the first one was, because it shamed you, just as it shames me."

"What . . ."

"You wondered," she said coldly, "if I enjoyed it. And then, somewhere deep inside you, in that place where all stereotypical attitudes live, in all sentient beings, there was a little voice that said, 'If she doesn't enjoy it, it's not a sin.' Take a good hard look at your memories, and then tell me, swear it on your honor as a Jedi, that I'm wrong."

Her face was a blaze of defiance, frozen in such a confluence of pain that he was both awed and humbled by it.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. It was all he could think to say.

Something softened, just slightly, in her countenance. "There are many forms of rape, little Jedi. I hope you never learn that firsthand. My cousin seems to be completely enthralled with you, and your willingness to participate in our grubby little war."

"But you're not," he answered, recovering something of his equanimity.

She shifted the sleeping baby to a more comfortable position before answering, and her voice was cold once more - unyielding. "I think you're slumming, or sulking, maybe. Something happened in your lovely Jedi tower that didn't sit well with you, so here you are to work through your snit - until they come to take you back to your perfect world."

"You don't know anything about me," he replied, "so you can't know . . ."

"I'll tell you what I know," she snapped. "I know that every night, sometimes two or three times a night, I allow my body to be used and abused by a man I would happily cut into ribbons with my bare hands, a man who fancies that he's only a 'real' man if he leaves his marks on me, with his hands or his teeth or his fists. A man who enjoys seeing my flesh bruised and bloody. A man who has a genius for devising excruciating punishments, for minor infractions of a code of behavior that he rewrites every day, so I'm never sure if there's some new rule I'm breaking."

Her breathing had grown unsteady as she spoke, and now, her eyes had darkened with fear and fury. "A man who uses his own flesh and blood, his child, but born of a worthless slave, as leverage to bend my will and subdue my spirit. He has never touched Cayle, but only, I think, because he knows that he would never again be able to use me for his pleasure; he would be forced to kill me if he did. It is not, I can assure you, due to any affection for the baby. The threat is always there, Jedi. Every time I come here; every action I take to aid the Resistance; every communication I send, I risk myself, and I risk this child. Now you tell me; what do you risk?"

He stared at her and knew that he had never been in the presence of such courage or such torment in his entire life.

"All I can offer," he replied, "is my life."

She sighed, and closed her eyes. "Then pray, Jedi, that all they can do is kill you, if the time ever comes."

"Given all that," he said softly, "why do you do it?"

And this time, she refused to meet his eyes, and, when she spoke, it was as if something within her had broken and could never be repaired. "I use what I have to do what I must."

In silence, he watched her walk away. She had no way of knowing that he was not the sheltered innocent she believed him to be; that he had seen countless examples of the limitless cruelty of sentient beings, had been the target of such viciousness more times than he could count; that his body, if not for the skill of Jedi healers, would have born hideous scars attesting to suffering that few beings were called upon to endure in the course of an entire lifetime.

But, in the final analysis, it would make little difference, for he realized that the tortures he had survived were all superficial, no matter how debilitating. They had never reached the core of who he was. In one sense, she was correct; he had been sheltered, for, through it all, the Force had cradled him and nourished him and, at those times when it had been taken from him, waited for him to return, always giving him what he needed to endure and to retain the sense of himself.

He could not, as a result, conceive of the bitterness of her anguish or the terrible toll she paid for her actions. She had managed, somehow, to preserve her love for her children, but everything else was forfeit. Within her heart, there was only hopelessness and hatred and a bleak determination to do whatever she must to destroy those who had allowed the sacrifice of her soul.

She was the ultimate definition of the term, 'ruthless', and he conceded that he would not wish to be the object of her wrath.

 

******************* ************* *******************

They walked together in the forest's gloaming, the sky deepening to violet, shot with the silver of early stars. Drimula's twin moons were already well up, the smaller having just cleared the horizon, as the small party moved through soft brush, well away from more traveled paths.

Obi-Wan, freshly bathed and smelling of an aromatic fungi that provided a perfectly acceptable natural substitute for soap, kept one hand securely wrapped around one of a pair of fat little arms that circled his neck as he moved silently through the twilight. A sharp, bony little chin periodically bored into the top of his shoulder as Cayle scrambled to keep his face high enough to see where Obi was going.

When the baby, for reasons of his own, reached up and kissed the side of the young Jedi's throat, Obi-Wan felt tears start in his eyes. He turned his head and buried his face in the child's soft, springy cap of dark curls and was almost overwhelmed with sweet, warm baby scent. 

"Far enough," said Jhevaghn abruptly, though very softly. "We're nearing the patrol perimeter."

"What if they see you?" asked Qui-Gon gently. 

Her smile was thin, slightly arrogant. "I'm not a complete fool, Master Jedi. I have my methods and my assets. Certain guards who are greedy for bribes; others who are simply stupid; one who fancies himself in love with me, an illusion I cultivate carefully. I'm supposed to be worshipping our summer goddess in the shrine of Al'Tierrana, a practice the Triumvirate encourages, as the religion teaches pacifism and obedience." Her eyes grew darker. "The masses are allowed this 'privilege', because it serves the purpose of the despots."

She seemed to shake off the darkness pooling around her. "Slipping out of the shrine was simple; slipping back in will be just as easy. I won't be seen." 

The dark-haired young woman, who would have been quite painfully lovely, if not for the hard glint in her eyes and the harder set of her jawline, turned to face her father, who stood looking down at her, undoubtedly seeing only the girl she had once been instead of the warrior she had become.

"Parai," she breathed, and there was just the slightest trace of wistfulness in her tone, "go and make them understand. Make them see the evil that happens here."

He put his arms around her, and tucked the top of her head under his chin, where it fit perfectly. "I will do my best, my daughter. Keep safe for me, for the day when this is done, and our world is once again ours."

She nodded. "You will see to Devlyn?"

"Of course." Mer'lioz reached over and took Cayle from Obi-Wan's arms. "Like this little scamp, he is a child of my heart. Soon we will all be together."

And there came, at that moment, one of those curious flexures in the flow of time; Jhevaghn looked up, and her eyes locked with Obi-Wan's, and he could hardly bear to contemplate what he saw in her gaze, but, in the end, he found that he simply couldn't look away. He didn't know what future Mer'lioz saw for his daughter, but he DID know it was not the same as what she saw for herself.

As her father made his good-byes to his grandchild, she continued to hold Obi-Wan's gaze, so flagrantly that Master Jinn began to feel a rising unease and, finally, stepped between the two, breaking the hold of the moment.

Obi-Wan was surprised to realize he had been holding his breath.

When Cayle was settled peacefully, drowsily, into the sling/carrier his mother wore on her shoulders, the young Jedi leaned forward and nuzzled gently against the baby's ear, drawing a sleepy giggle as a reward.

"Take care of him," he murmured, meeting her eyes again.

She responded with nothing more than a look which he could not interpret, but which he didn't think he liked much.

She turned to gesture toward the top of a small plateau that rose from among the rugged foothills. "There," she said to Qui-Gon. "If you insist on getting a closer look, that's the place. But I advise against it. The information you require, to convince your Council and all the bleeding hearts in the Republic that our plight is genuine, it's all there, in encrypted files in the mainframe. If we try to bring it all out at once, it's going to trigger the sensor alarms, but we will get it. It's only a matter of time."

Qui-Gon studied the young woman for a moment before replying. "Your patience is quite remarkable, Mistress Jhevaghn, considering the ever-rising mortality rate among your people."

Her face was suddenly livid with rage. "Patience? You think this is patience, Jedi? I have no more patience. But what I do have is the knowledge - not the theory, mind you, or the belief, but the certain knowledge - that, if we move too quickly, the consortium will move heaven and earth to cut its losses, and conceal the carnage. And I doubt I need to remind you that the dead don't carry tales, Master. If they are forced out before this genocide is exposed, they will finish the job and destroy the last shred of evidence in the process."

"Jhevaghn," said Mer'lioz gently, "it's not Master Jinn's fault."

"No?" she snapped. "How about sweet, little Obi-Wan; is it his fault? How about all the Jedi and all the residents of the Outer Rim, and all the citizens of the Republic?" Her words were clipped and cold. "Don't you get it, Parai? It's the fault of every man - every person - who ever saw acts of cruelty and greed and evil and just turned away. They've all turned away, and they'll do it again, unless someone stops them."

She looked up and straight into the midnight eyes of Qui-Gon Jinn. "So tell me, Master." Qui-Gon thought she made the word almost as much a curse as Obi-Wan could, when he chose to. "Are you going to stop them?"

Obi-Wan turned to stare up at his former Master, curious to hear his response, wondering if Qui-Gon's legendary Jedi aplomb was intact, in the face of what he had learned of this place - and this woman.

It was, almost. Obi-Wan was the only to note the tiny tremor in the Master's jawline as he answered. "The Force will guide us, Mistress."

It wasn't funny, he told himself, as Jhevaghn looked as if she was a bare inch away from stomping her foot at such flagrant pablum. She looked up, crossed her arms, and snarled, "Oh, puh-leeze!"

Obi-Wan suddenly discovered that his left bootstrap required some serious attention, as he managed to stifle his laughter by jamming his mouth against his knee. When he rose, Qui-Gon was still looking slightly flushed and rattled, as one would who had just realized he had swallowed a bug, and one glance in the direction of Ramal Dyprio - who was almost beet-red with suppressed laughter - was one glance too many.

Obi-Wan did the only thing he could; he ran.

***************** ****************** *****************

N'Vell Aji looked up at the twin moons and almost purred with satisfaction. 

How simple life was when one simply paid attention.

She found that the aura of azure radiance that flared around the smaller of the two was somehow soothing, or maybe it was merely the level of her contentment.

Of course, there was still a large element of disappointment that she could not quite dispel; not yet. The Jedi survived, and she knew that she had lost what was probably her best chance for the annihilation of the knighthood. Still, her new business associates, who offered no explanations for their actions, but seemed to act with a single-minded purpose not unlike her own, were beginning to interest her greatly. Maul, despite exceedingly rough edges, piqued her curiosity, displaying abilities that seemed to swirl with darkness. Yet, Maul was strictly a subordinate, and N'Vell didn't deal with subordinates, if there were any alternatives.

She smiled, pleased with her insights.

Maul's superior had been loathe to reveal himself; had concealed himself with shadows and misdirection. Which, of course, meant two things. One - that he was a person of some renown, and would be instantly recognizable should he err on the side of recklessness; and two - that his identity might well be negotiable, with the right coin.

The right coin. She liked that; liked the imagery it sparked.

The right coin: one lovely, helpless, subdued, little Jedi padawan. Lovely coin, suitably broken in, of course.

Brath Ozvey joined her on the balcony, as twilight became night, and she allowed him to take her in his arms. The General, she had found, had an appetite almost as insatiable as her own, though he had practiced greater restraint. She had made it very clear, after having examined the bruises and abrasions on the flesh of his Drimulan whore, that she would tolerate no such treatment. She had some notion that he treated her as an appetizer, before completing his meal with what Mali sometimes referred to as 'rough trade' with the slave. Which bothered the Telosian princess not at all.

Especially now.

"Are you sure?" he whispered, nuzzling her ear gently.

"Oh, yes," she purred, closing her eyes. "Have you made the preparations?"

"I have indeed. I only hope our timing is right. We can't track that ship, you know. If they get to it . . ."

She shrugged, "You let them go. They're unimportant, as long as we get the prize."

"N'Vell," he said quietly, allowing some small trace of doubt to bleed into his tone, "he is just ONE man. Just one, and actually not even a man - yet. Are you so sure that you're willing to risk everything for just one man?"

She turned, and leaned back against the balcony railing, lifting a pale hand to trace his jawline. "Not even a man?" Her laugh was throaty, and slightly mocking. "Dear Brath, don't make that mistake! Convince yourself that he's less a man than you, and he's going to find a way to cut your heart out and feed it to you. He may be very young, but he's a man nevertheless. Full-grown."

"Nevertheless," he went on, ignoring the annoyance in her eyes.

"General," she interrupted firmly, "you are, by this time I think, a very wealthy man. Are you not?"

His smile was wry. "As you undoubtedly know," he replied.

"Yes. If you spent the rest of your life throwing it away, you couldn't spend it all. Correct?"

"Basically, yes."

Now it was her turn to smile. "Then what are you worried about? If the Jedi, or the Republic, or the Hutts, for Force' sake, force us out of here, we'll simply find another place."

He studied the deceptive delicacy of her features, reflecting that she was living proof that one should never judge an individual based on appearance alone; there was absolutely nothing delicate about the mind and will that drove her. "Are you ever going to tell me how you knew?" he asked, tracing the luscious fullness of her lower lip with a gentle thumb.

She smiled archly, and summoned her personal slave to attend her. The twi'lek managed - barely - not to cringe as she approached.

"Bring me the holo-clip from my briefcase," N'vell ordered, "and be quick about it."

Wordlessly, the girl fetched the tiny device and brought it to her mistress, bowing very low as she presented it.

"Activate it, Imbecile," snapped the mistress, tone dripping scorn.

A tiny three-dimensional image formed above the girl's outstretched hand, a recreation of a moment captured by a photographer's holo-cam for the edification of the insatiable viewers of Coruscant's public affairs holo-programming.

Ozvey stared at the tiny figures, and recognized the central figure immediately. A bit younger, and a lot more covered, but the face was unmistakable: young Ben, resplendent in Jedi garb and a brilliant smile, surrounded by a group of beings who looked less than thrilled with the spotlight trained on them; creatures, it appeared, of the night, and the underworld. And what was a Jedi padawan doing in such company?

The caption explained all, and Ozvey shook his head in amazement; the young pup actually spent his spare time helping out in a soup kitchen, even allowing himself to be 'auctioned' in order to raise funds for the needy who occupied that particular sub-strata of Coruscant's teeming underbelly. 

The General raised his eyebrows as he looked back at N'Vell. "So? He's filled with compassion. Aside from confirming that he's a fool of the first order, what does that have to do with anything?"

"Look closer," she purred. "Standing behind him."

Ozvey once more turned to the hologram, and changed his focal point. The figure behind the young Jedi was in shadow, but a face was visible in the gloom, an oval face framed with drifts of dark hair, and delicate planes and angles sculpted by patterns of pale light.

Realization came in a rush. "Jhevaghn," he breathed. "But how . . ."

She chuckled. "Not really, but obviously a near relative. When I saw your little playmate, everything just clicked. The connection is what brought him to Drimula, and I think the real connection is the Ghost. And, of course, the final connection, the one probably forged today, will bring him here, to us - on his knees."

She turned back to gaze down into the valley. "This isn't about protecting our operation here, Brath, although I still have hopes for that. I don't believe the legendary Master will jeopardize his greatest achievement just to save this little backwater world, no matter what. But this is about something much simpler."

"Revenge," he said softly, burying his face in the midnight drift of her hair.

"Revenge," she agreed. She twisted her face to look up at him, eyes suddenly asking for reassurance. "Are you sure you're up to this? You won't be too distressed when you have to deal with such flagrant disloyalty?"

He pulled her to him roughly, and smiled. "It will be inconvenient, of course. My personal slaves are exceedingly well trained. Breaking in a new one will require a great deal of time and effort."

"Ummm, and discipline, no doubt. Perhaps, I could help you."

He laughed. "I thought you planned to be very busy, for a while."

Her smile was venomous. "Oh, yes, I do. For a while. Until he pays, for them all. And that certainly will take a while, but I can always use a little extra practice in learning new disciplinary methods. Don't you think?"

He bowed slightly. "Milady, your wish is my command."

"Yes," she sighed. "It is, isn't it? But not, I think, quite so completely as it will be for him."

She reached out and picked up an object from the nearby table, a small object, of dull ceramic, lozenge-shaped, with a short, wire-like extrusion from one end.

"He, after all, will have no choice."

 

****************** ***************** ******************

Full dark hovered over the forest now, but the brilliance of the twin moons traced everything in pale silver and frosted blue and made travel inadvisable for those who dared not risk discovery, until the hour of moonset, which would not occur for some time yet.

Obi-Wan sat propped against a small boulder, cushioned by a thick layer of soft, brown piquala needles, and listened to the night music of the forest, and the song of the Force that seemed to echo sweetly in his consciousness. He closed his eyes, and traced the presence of tiny creatures all around the clearing at the mouth of the cavern; and then traced creatures not so tiny, creatures of whom he had only just become aware.

He opened his eyes and peered up through the liquid silver light, toward the top of the waterfall.

Nearby, Ramal Dyprio chuckled softly. "Spotted them, did you?"

Obi-Wan nodded, slightly embarrassed. "Only I can't figure out . . ."

"Why you didn't notice them before. Don't worry about it, Kiddo. Neither Qui-Gon nor I spotted them, until we'd already been here several hours. We both thought their security was something of a joke, until we finally realized that things were not as they seemed. They're quite gifted in the art of concealment, even in the Force."

The moonlight was quite bright, but not bright enough to expose what Obi-Wan was looking for. Indeed, full sunlight would not have betrayed the presence of the armed warriors, poised in a sort of natural watchtower just beyond the uppermost reaches of the waterfall.

Solitaire nodded. "It's very well-planned and well-guarded. No one is going to sneak up on this place, I assure you."

Mer'lioz was studying young Kenobi's face with gentle amusement when Obi-Wan glanced toward his former Master. "I still should have noticed," he said softly.

Qui-Gon shifted, as if to speak, but it was Mer'lioz who beat him to it. "You see with your heart, Young one, not your eyes. And you always will."

Obi-Wan's smile was rueful. "Which could very well get me killed, somewhere down the road."

The Drimulan grinned. "Perhaps, but there are worse things than death."

Obi-Wan looked down, carefully avoiding making eye contact with anyone. "Yes. There are."

After a moment, he looked up again, and turned to face Mer'lioz. "Why are you leaving?" he asked, and almost bit his tongue when he realized that the question sounded vaguely like a condemnation.

But the Drimulan was unperturbed as he replied. "When one has exhausted places in which to take refuge, what is left? Wherever I go now, I endanger those around me. The army has orders to locate and arrest me, no matter what the cost. And the cost, my young friend, would be counted in Drimulan lives. Make no mistake about it."

Obi-Wan smiled. "I looked up your record, before we came here. You're not what I expected."

Mer'lioz laughed. "Did you think I'd be three meters tall, with arms like trees, blasters strapped to both thighs, with a saber in my teeth?"

"Something like that," the young Jedi admitted, with a grin.

The Drimulan leaned forward, and patted the young man's knee. "Learn early, Little One. Never believe your own press."

"It must be difficult for you."

"Obi-Wan," said Qui-Gon, very gently, sensing some level of distress in the priest, "perhaps . . ."

"No," said Mer'lioz firmly, "I think he might need to hear my answer."

He turned again toward Obi-Wan, and his voice was tinged with both regret and a tiny thread of reproof. "What is difficult, Child, is knowing that I must quit the battle while the war still rages; that everything I have done, every action I have taken, has ultimately been pointless. We fought our minor skirmishes, because we had no choice. We bombed power stations and attacked processing plants and shot down government troops when we could, and they just rebuilt the stations and the plants, and sent in new troops. So what did we really accomplish?"

"You stood and fought," replied the young Jedi steadily, "instead of bending your knee to tyranny."

Mer'lioz smiled. "Fine words, young Kenobi. Fine and noble and very inspirational, but we have no more young men to inspire. They've all gone to the mines, or to their graves."

"Are you saying you shouldn't have fought?" asked the youth, obviously confused now.

"No," chuckled the Drimulan. "I'm saying we should have won."

"But how . . ."

"By doing what my nephew and my daughter have advocated all along. We can fight a running battle, and delay the government's final resolution of our problems, but to emerge with any sort of victory, we need help. We need to learn to bend our knee, as you put it, not to tyranny, but in supplication for help from those who can provide it."

He rose and turned to look directly into the eyes of Qui-Gon Jinn. "We need the Jedi."

Obi-Wan also turned, and Qui-Gon, while exchanging looks with the Drimulan, was all too aware of the heat of his former padawan's gaze.

"I will do what I can." It was the only promise the Jedi Master could make, and Obi-Wan knew it. But he was annoyed, nevertheless.

"Padawan," said Ramal Dyprio, too softly for anyone but Obi-Wan to hear, "control your passions. Remember the code."

Obi-Wan practically leapt to his feet, but did not, quite, voice the three words that erupted in his mind and trembled on his lips. "I'm going for a walk."

Concern flared in several faces, but it was Noreilan who spoke, in a tone that brooked no dispute. "You'll be quite safe, provided you stay off the main paths. The patrols don't go into the forest at night. They're not comfortable with some of our nocturnal fauna, but you should be fine if you keep your eyes open - and your lightsaber handy."

Obi-Wan was touched by something he heard in her voice, a hint that she might have some inkling of his need to be alone for a while. "How's Devlyn?" he asked quietly.

"Better," she replied with a smile, "but developing a bad case of hero worship."

"Discourage him," he advised with a grin. "Heroes always turn out to be jerks in disguise."

Noreilan laughed gently. "Be careful out in the darkness, Jerk," she said softly. 

As he moved to leave the clearing, a large - really large - shadow detached itself from the gloom near the cave's entrance and fell into step behind him.

"Jeb!" he said, slightly irritated. "I do not need a babysitter."

"Right." The big Corellian simply stood, unmoving, regarding the young Jedi with infinite patience.

"I'm serious," insisted the youth. "Sit down."

"It's a free forest," retorted the bodyguard firmly, and waited.

"Then you go for a walk, and I'll find a place to just sit and daydream."

"Okay. You sit, and I'll walk around where you're sitting."

Obi-Wan sighed, and pretended not to hear the soft laughter shared by his former Master and Ramal Dyprio. Without another word he stalked into the forest, setting a fast pace toward a small, tumbling stream in the near distance.

Qui-Gon Jinn rose and made as if to follow him, but the Drimulan priest extended one hand, and the Jedi paused.

"You've told him all he needs to hear," said Mer'lioz softly. "Now you must trust him to process it, and find his own answers."

"But I need to tell him . . ."

"Master Jinn," said the Drimulan with a sympathetic smile, "do you really believe, after all this time, after all the years he's spent at your side, that there's anything he doesn't know about you?"

"He doesn't know I love him."

"Yes, he does. He just doesn't know if you love him enough. And that's something only he can decide."

It was a near thing, for a moment. The Jedi Master wanted nothing more than to ignore the priest's advice, walk into the darkness among the towering trees, find his padawan and demand that he listen, that he come home, that he submit.

Qui-Gon almost gasped, as that final word flared in his mind. By the Force, was that what his need was really about? Did he require the submission of his apprentice?

The Drimulan priest smiled, his eyes alight with contentment. "You see, Jedi Master, it is not only the student who may still have much to learn."

With a sigh that was almost a moan, Master Jinn moved deeper into the shadows near the cave, and sank to his knees, reaching for his meditative center with near-frantic desperation. He had glimpsed something heretofore unknown, even unsuspected; now he must understand what he had seen and learn what he must do. He knew only one thing, with certainty. He would do - must do - what was best for his padawan; now all he had to figure out was what that might be.

 

****************** ****************** **************

It was on a small promontory that Obi-Wan settled himself, where the glow of the two moons over-lapped, casting double shadows that were slightly disorienting, but nevertheless quite beautiful. At his left, a rushing torrent plunged through a rock-lined channel, then soared out over a jutting precipice to disappear in a thick, boiling mist some ten meters below his vantage point.

Off to his right, in deep shadow cast by a clot of giant fern-like shrubs, his ever-present Corellian escort tried to disappear, or at least appear unobtrusive, but it was a hopeless effort. Easier to hide a bantha in a pack of womprats. 

Still, Obi-Wan was grateful that Jebbitz did know how to achieve real stillness, a condition that many humanoids found impossible to endure.

The young Jedi had been procrastinating for too long; he knew that. There were many things to consider, and he had, until now, refused to consider them, but he knew he could delay no longer. It wasn't fair - not to the Jedi, not to the members of the Drimulan Resistance, not even to himself. And, most of all, not to his Master.

His Master.

He had meant never to grant the man that title again. He really had, but, in the end, his bravado had proven to be an empty gesture. He had ever had only one Master; he would never have another, and he would not give up becoming a Jedi. It was time to let it all go. To release his hold on his anger and his resentment and his bitterness, and to forget that his wrath was just, and well-deserved.

For he knew his choice now. He could be right, or he could be Jedi. He could be justified, or he could be the padawan learner of Master Qui-Gon Jinn. He could not be both.

If, of course, the Master could live with the changes in their relationship, for changes there would surely be. Obi-Wan knew that, in some ways, he was still more child than man; knew that he still had vast amounts to learn before he could be considered an adult. But he had learned much in these days of turmoil, much that he would have preferred not to know at such a tender age; much, perhaps, that he would have preferred never to know at all. But he could not unlearn them now. In the uproar of these events, he had lost something, and he would never regain it - something that was a component of his innocence, and his ability to trust. 

He would relearn to trust his Master, to believe in their bond, but never in the absolute, unquestioning, indestructible way he once had. 

The child who had been capable of that level of trust was gone.

Suddenly unable to remain still for another moment, he rose and started back down the trail he had followed to reach this lovely overlook. So focused was he on his musing that he almost bowled her over before he saw her.

"Jhevaghn," he cried, grabbing her arms to steady her as she stepped directly into his path and was almost knocked aside by his momentum. "What are you doing here? I thought you went back to the village." 

She was wrapped in a thick, rough cape that draped over her head and down past her knees, but, even through its fullness, he could tell that she was trembling badly. "You have to come with me," she said, barely audible.

"Sure," he answered easily. "Is something wrong? Where's Cayle?"

Her eyes were huge pools of reflected moonlight. "You have to come with me," she repeated.

"Okay," he replied, noting now the pallor of her face, and a bruise just blooming under her left eye. "Let me just get . . ."

"No," she cried, grabbing him with fists clinching tight in his shirt. "Just you. Please."

Obi-Wan went very still and forced her to stand unmoving and rigid before him.

"Tell me," he said gently.

"They've got Cayle," she said, barely able to speak for the tremor in her voice. "They were waiting when I got back, and they took him. They know you're here."

The young Jedi heaved a deep breath. "What do they want?"

She gave a shaky little laugh, threaded with hysteria. "They want everything, but they'll settle for you."

He nodded. "All right, but I need . . ."

"You can't tell anyone," she interrupted, reaching into a pocket in her cape and extracting a bulky packet. "This will explain everything."

"What is it?" he asked, recognizing computer encryption codes on the flap of the package.

She shuddered. "It's everything the Jedi will need to prove what has happened here. All the computer files, everything. Devlyn set up the program to duplicate all the files months ago, and it's been draining the data ever since - very slowly. It's only about 80% complete, but it should be enough."

Obi-Wan stared deep into her eyes, and saw that she already knew what he was going to say. "They'll kill you for this."

"They're going to do that anyway," she replied, "but, maybe, just maybe, our lives - yours and mine together - will buy that of my son. So decide now, Jedi, if this was all just an interesting little side trip for you, on the road to your knighthood, or if you meant what you said."

He didn't hesitate, but raised his voice deliberately. "Jebbitz, come up here, please. I need you."

"You bastard!" she hissed, eyes wide now and flaming with betrayal, and he was forced to grab her hands as she clawed at his face.

The Corellian was surprisingly fast on his feet for someone so large. "What's wrong?" he demanded as he sprinted up the hill.

Obi-Wan managed, freeing one hand, to toss the data package toward him and said, "You will take this to Master Qui-Gon, when you wake up."

"Wake up? What do you . . . ."

"Sleep!" the young Jedi said firmly, and Jebbitz fell to the grassy verge of the trail, the data packet clasped against his chest.

"Sorry, my friend," said Obi-Wan, with genuine regret, before turning back to face Jhevaghn, who had now gone stiff and silent.

Obi-Wan's smile was slightly venal. "Any other names you'd care to call me, before it's too late?"

She didn't offer an apology, and he didn't expect one.

They had no time for polite conversation as they ran toward the lights of the city.

As he moved through the darkness, he took one brief moment to send a tiny, almost wordless pulse of regret through a bond that was not quite as closed off as he had believed it to be. But he was grateful that it was also not as open as it might have been.

They had both delayed too long, it seemed. The bond would remain closed now - forever.

******************* ************** ****************  
tbc


	30. The Worst Evil

Chapter 30: The Worst Evil

 _Death is not the worst evil, but rather when we wish to die and cannot._

_Electra_ \- Sophocles

 

It came to him only very faintly, like a dying echo, yet it slammed into his consciousness with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball, and Qui-Gon Jinn, universally renowned for his serene grasp of the Force, abandoned his meditational tranquility as if discarding a bothersome cloak, and came to his feet with an inarticulate shout.

"What?" demanded Solitaire immediately; she had absolutely no Force sensitivity, but she knew raw fear when she saw it.

"Something's wrong," replied the Master, already half way across the clearing, tracing the path taken by Obi-Wan some minutes earlier.

Ramal Dyprio was right behind him. "What did you hear?"

"Not much. Just . . . he's in trouble, and he's shut himself completely off, so I won't be able to reach him."

"Meaning he knows you're not going to approve of what he's doing."

"Precisely."

Behind them, Solitaire was struggling to keep pace, but a surprisingly strong, steady hand reached out to restrain her.

"There is little point in running," said Mer'lioz firmly. "It's already too late. He's gone."

The Weapons Master hesitated and almost demanded an explanation of how he could possibly know that, before realizing that how he knew it was immaterial. Somehow he did know it.

"Gone where?"

The Drimulan priest smiled. "He means a great deal to you, doesn't he?"

"That's beside the point. Where is he going?"

Mer'lioz sighed. "To meet what life demands of him." And the Drimulan shuddered and would have fallen if not for Solitaire's sharp reflexes. As he settled to his knees, obviously shaken to the core, maintaining his balance only by virtue of Solitaire's steady hand, the Weapons Master knelt beside him, and tried not to exhibit too much impatience as he recovered his composure.

"Tell me what you see," she said firmly, "and why you can see what a Jedi Master apparently can't."

The priest nodded. "He will see it eventually. He is too caught up in his own guilt and his fear right now to allow himself to see it. But he will."

"What? What will he see?"

A single tear welled and spilled from the Drimulan's eye, as he tried to still hands suddenly shaking like dry grasses stirred by capricious winds. "The boy is doing what he's meant to do. He's listening to the voice of the power that guides him in all things."

"The Force, you mean."

"It matters little what you name it. It drives him, compels him to do what he must. But . . ." The old man paused, and seemed wracked by some terrible foreboding surging within him.

"But?"

"He will be forced to endure that which cannot be endured." It was only a whisper. 

Solitaire gripped the priest's arms tightly enough to cut off circulation. "Are you telling me he's going to die?"

Again, he drew a deep breath. "No, Child. I'm telling you it would be better if he did. Easier."

The Weapons Master rose. "Where?"

"You can't stop it," answered the priest.

"Maybe not," came the response, "but I can make sure he doesn't have to face it alone. Tell me where."

"They will bring him into the city, to the public square. They will attempt to humiliate him publicly." He looked up and stared at her mask, trying to discern the eyes behind it. Suddenly, he allowed himself a tiny, shaky smile. "They will fail."

She nodded, as she checked her weapons status and supply belt. "They'll never break him," she muttered.

But Mer'lioz was now staring off into the distance, eyes dull and unfocused. She gave a mental shrug, thinking that he would not answer her.

But she was wrong. "No, Child," he said finally. "They will break him, completely and irrevocably. I can't see if he will survive this ordeal, but, if he does, it will be as a different person. The young man you have known will be forever lost."

She paused for just a moment, peering into his eyes, almost recoiling from the pain she read there, and knowing, suddenly, that she didn't really want to see what he was seeing. But if she turned away now, if she faded back into her role as the good little soldier and preserved her anonymity, at all costs, then Obi-Wan would face his destiny alone, and that she would not allow.

"I want you to do me a favor," she said softly, watching to be sure the old man was listening. "When they come back, don't volunteer anything. Don't tell them where I've gone, until they ask. By that time, it should be too late for them to try to intercept me. And then, I want you to tell them to take you and the boy, and get to the ship. That's the priority here; the mission. They are not to waste time or effort looking for me or Obi-Wan."

The Drimulan's skepticism was plain in his face. "And they'll listen to me because?"

She was busy stowing spare blaster pacs in a pouch attached to her outer thigh. "Because," she replied, "technically, I'm in command here, since Obi-Wan is out of the picture. As captain of the _Angel,_ he had the rank. Now it's mine, and I'm using it."

"You really think they're going to follow your orders, because of some technicality?"

"No," she replied. "But I'm hoping they'll be guided by common sense and, maybe, the will of the Force. You tell me Obi-Wan is being guided in what he's doing. I'm hoping it will guide them too, to do what's best for everyone involved, even if it's not what's best for him or me. And you're going to help convince them."

"I don't think . . ." His voice just faded into nothingness, and, once more, she glimpsed complete desolation in his eyes.

"I don't care what you think," she retorted. "If Obi-Wan is going to risk his life for this, and I'm going to risk mine, to help him do it, the least you can do is follow through and help to make his sacrifice worthwhile. Have your people contact Rain. If they won't listen to me, or to you, maybe they'll listen to him."

She was moving now, with characteristic economy and grace, when he called after her. "It will almost kill _him_ , you know - to leave him behind."

She actually stopped and spun back to look at him. "I'd say that comes under the heading of payback," she said softly, not nearly as bitterly as she might have. "Last time, it was Obi-Wan who was forced to do the leaving."

And she was gone, a shadow among shadows, silent and fading.

Mer'lioz sat motionless, staring up into the firmament, eyes huge and reflective.

The woman was strong, as was the young Jedi, and the priest hoped they would both prove to be strong enough, but he couldn't be sure.

Slowly he covered his face with his hands; there was actually only one thing of which he felt sure - that he himself would not be strong enough. He didn't think he could endure what was at hand. He had spent a lifetime accepting that which he could not change, but he didn't know how to accept this.

Nor could he change it.

Soft, broken sobs rose up within him, and he collapsed upon himself, rolling tight around a core gone suddenly fragile and bruised.

He would choose, if he could, not to see the birth and death of the days to come. He would choose to exist no more. He would choose to discard the burdens he must still bear.

But he couldn't. He could only sit here in the silence, and watch the approach of old visions, come finally, inexorably, to fruition. And ask again - and again - how a benevolent god could allow such evil to exist and flourish.

He had long since come to understand that there were no real answers, and that he would one day face the sunrise of a morning on which he would even cease to question; the day he would finally bury the last of the faith that had sustained him throughout his life.

His heart was heavy and weary within him. Morning, it seemed, was at hand.

**************** ***************** ******************

Obi-Wan allowed Jhevaghn to set the pace, but was careful to move just slightly ahead of her, using his Force senses to locate and remove any obstacles that might have impeded her progress. Ordinarily, he sensed, her steps would have been sure and unfaltering, but this was no ordinary journey, and she was both distraught and distracted. Nevertheless, she moved with liquid stealth, a habit ingrained, no doubt, by the necessity for secrecy in every aspect of her life. Until now.

"Tell me," he said quietly, "what they know. I don't want to give away anything."

"They know you're here," she answered, equally soft-spoken. "They know there's a transmitter nearby, although they're not sure I know where it is. They know you're here to pick up refugees, and they seem to know about your pretty little ship, although I don't think they know how to locate or track it. More to the point, maybe, is what they don't know."

"Such as?"

She paused and waited until he turned to face her. "They don't know about Devlyn," she said steadily, "or my father. Nor, it appears, about the other Jedi that are here. They only know - for certain - about you. You seem to be the jackpot, as far as they're concerned."

"Ozvey?" he asked, ignoring a faint tightening in his chest.

"Actually," she answered, with a sidelong glance, "he seems more amused by you, than anything else. It's the woman who wants you, and I mean she really, _really_ wants you. I don't know what you did to her, but I think you're about to learn just how big a bitch payback can be."

He turned away to resume his progress through the sparse undergrowth before them when a rustling sound above them drew his attention, just in time to use a minimal but perfectly-placed Force push to deflect the aerial attack of some kind of small, leaping rodent. The animal - more annoyed than injured - raced back up into the treetop canopy just as there was a somewhat larger crackling sound behind the young Jedi. He spun to find Jhevaghn sprawled, somewhat inelegantly, across a small deadfall of thick, stubby, semi-rotted tree limbs.

"Damn!" she swore, tears of frustration welling in eloquent gray eyes.

"Let me see," he said gently, kneeling to get a better look at an ankle that was swelling rapidly, and already streaked with discoloration.

"We don't have time for this," she moaned, panic rising in her eyes.

"It'll be all right," he answered, infusing his voice with just the barest trace of Force soothing. "I'll carry you. Just let me see if I can straighten it a bit."

"It'll take too long," she protested, her voice strident now with desperation.

"Jhevaghn," he said firmly, putting a bit more Force enhancement into it, "I'm a Jedi. Trust me; we'll be there soon. Now, tell me about Devlyn."

"What about him?" she asked sullenly, slightly discomfited by the subject change.

"You said they don't know about him. How is that possible? How can Ozvey not know about him?"

She winced slightly as he manipulated her ankle. "They think he's dead."

Obi-Wan simply stared at her for a moment. "How'd you manage that?"

"Two years ago," she said softly, "he came down with Porlian Fever. Do you know it?"

"Yes, very dangerous. Very high mortality rate."

"He almost died," she continued, then paused. Finally, she looked up at him, and the moonlight made her tear-washed eyes luminous. "I bribed the village doctor to pretend that he did. We smuggled him out of the village that night, and another child"- her voice was shaking now - "a helpless, little orphan who died that same day, was cremated in his place. Since the bodies were contagious, the soldiers refused to come near them, so it was fairly simple. Since then, he's been in the cave, or in the other safe houses in the area. He hasn't been outside during the daylight, since that day."

"I'm sorry," breathed the Jedi, unable to imagine such a life for a child.

"Oh," she answered softly, "I guess that makes it OK, then. You're sorry. Aren't you going to ask what I used to bribe the doctor with?"

"No."

"Because you don't care, or because you've already figured it out?"

"Because," he said softly, leaning forward to pick her up, "it doesn't matter."

He straightened, and she stared into his eyes. "They're going to kill us both," she said steadily. "You do know that, don't you?"

"There is no death," he recited. "There is the Force."

He winked at her, and she saw, unmistakably, unbelievably, a twinkle in his eye.

And she laughed and then could not believe that she had done so. "That," she said softly, "is the stupidest thing I ever heard."

"Tell me," he replied, "is there anything you do believe in?"

"Not much," she answered, with a sidelong glance to gauge his reaction. "But now there's something I want to ask you."

"Fire away."

There was no laughter in her eyes now, and no cynicism or skepticism or resentment. There was only honest curiosity. "You could've said no. Most people would have. So why are you doing this? Why are you here, risking your life, for a child you met today, and a parent who doesn't even like you very much?"

He smiled. He admired honest curiosity, with emphasis on the 'honest'.

"Because it's what I'm supposed to do, what I'm meant to do."

"And how do you know that?" The suspicion was back in her voice.

His smile was gentle. "Obviously, you have no belief in the Force, but I do. I don't have to ask myself if it's real or what it wants from me; it speaks to me, all the time. All I have to do is listen. And that's all I'm doing now; I'm listening."

For a moment, she was silent, as if lost in thought. Then she sighed. "Would it lead you to your death?"

He nodded. "It might."

Now there was a sharpness in her eyes. "Would you know it?"

But he saw where she was going, and shook his head. "Not necessarily. I sometimes get glimpses of the future, but only sometimes."

"What is it telling you now?"

He continued forward at a steady pace, considering how best to answer her. At last, he decided the unvarnished truth was the only thing he could offer; was what she would prefer, no matter how discouraging; was what she deserved. "It tells me I have a task to perform in this place, a task that involves Cayle, but it doesn't tell me what the task is, or how it will turn out. I just know I have to be there."

"Will my baby die?" 

He closed his eyes and tried to reach through the Force to penetrate the barriers of time, to blend the now with the later seamlessly, to allow him to see the patterns of the moments and hours weaving themselves into days. But there was nothing but gray upon gray, threads upon threads, dancing around and through each other, but offering no hints of answers.

He wanted to give her reassurance - and hope - but he wouldn't lie.

"I don't know," he answered finally. "I only know that there is something I must do for him, and I promise you I'll do whatever I can to save him."

 

********************* ***************** ******************

A loud groan, followed by several select curse words, in a rather astonishing variety of languages, led them to the path leading to the top of the promontory. Jebbitz was not a happy man.

"He zapped me," he said in patent disbelief. "I don't believe it. He zapped me!"

"So it would seem," said Master Jinn gently. "Did he say anything before he . ."

"Zapped me?"

"Yes," replied the Master, suppressing a smile. "Before he 'zapped' you, did he say anything?"

"He said to give you this." And he held out a computer data storage packet.

"Jeb," said Ramal Dyprio, "do you know where he went?"

The big Corellian bodyguard grunted. "Prob'ly with that pretty li'l woman, but he didn't have to zap me for that. I mean, I coulda left 'em alone if that's all he wanted."

"Jebbitz," said Qui-Gon firmly, "rest assured that he did not . . "

"Zap me?"

"Quite, simply because he wanted to . . ."

"Fool around?" volunteered the bodyguard.

Ramal Dyprio, despite the gravity of the situation, was almost apoplectic with suppressed laughter, and Qui-Gon decided abruptly to cut his losses and abandon his attempts at communication.

He moved finally to stand at the very lip of the precipice and stare out into the silvered night, opening himself to the Force and its message. It swelled within him and around him, and was almost visible and palpable in its beauty. Its song was symphonic and harmonious, but on one subject, it remained stubbornly mute. He considered reaching deeper, sliding into the sub-strata of the pulsing energies, but knew at once that it would gain him nothing. Obi-Wan was out there; that much he could sense, and knew that it would probably require the energies of a supernova to prevent him from recognizing that. But there was nothing beyond that, and that was almost certainly because the young Jedi had erected heavy shielding, a task at which he was more proficient than most, thanks to extraordinary coaching by a certain meddlesome troll, for whom the towering Master, at this moment, felt nothing but a singular irritation.

"What did you hear?" asked Master Ramal finally, sensing Qui-Gon's growing frustration.

"Regret." The reply was little more than a whisper. "A sense of mourning, as if for lost chances. A pulse of warmth that might have been forgiveness."

The Corellian glanced over and saw a flash of bitter loneliness rise in deep sapphire eyes. "And?"

Qui-Gon hugged a sigh. "Two words."

"Which were?"

And now Dyprio saw something in that craggy face that he had never thought to see, and there was absolutely no mistaking it for anything else.

Qui-Gon Jinn faced his counterpart, and made no attempt to hide the intense shame that swept through him. "I'm sorry. That's what he said - to me. This child that I battered and bruised and mangled and almost destroyed . . . sent me this one last message. 'I'm sorry'."

Dyprio didn't even try to find a response. They both knew that there was nothing he - or anyone - could say.

Finally, he nodded toward the data storage pack in Qui-Gon's hands. "Maybe there will be answers in that. Let's get back to the cave."

Qui-Gon nodded, then looked up at the two moons, now riding near the zenith of their orbit. "They'll be down completely in about four hours."

Dyprio sighed heavily. "One bridge at a time. OK?"

Qui-Gon nodded, and forced himself to turn away from the forested vista spread out beneath him. His apprentice was out there in that darkness, but not, he thought, for much longer. He didn't know yet why Obi-Wan had gone or where he had gone; he only knew that, for whatever reason, the youth did not expect to return. For, in truth, there had been one more word in the message he had received. One final word.

_Good-bye._

He knew it was futile; knew, almost certainly, the boy would not hear, was not listening. But he could not walk away without trying.

He closed his eyes and hurled his message into the Force, calling upon every ounce of power within him. _I love you, Obi-Wan. Please, don't go._

Then he turned and walked away.

 

******************* ***************** ***************

Jhevaghn's image was very clear, too clear. Clear enough to allow the viewers to discern the terror in her eyes and the tremor that gripped her, not to mention the out-of-focus uniformed guard standing behind her, blaster rifle aimed and steady.

Her voice was without inflection - emotionless, dead. "If you attempt to follow him, he will be executed immediately, along with my infant son, and myself. You are ordered to leave Drimula immediately. You will be contacted later, with further instructions."

"Clever, clever girl," murmured Ramal Dyprio, admiration writ large in his eyes. "Watch her hands."

And indeed, once one knew where to look, it became obvious that she was carefully using her body to block the guard's view of her hands. Frightened, even almost panic-stricken, she still clung to enough discipline to focus on the mission she had long ago assigned herself, and deftly, swiftly, touched a series of controls on the console before her.

"What's she doing?" asked Qui-Gon. He was a Jedi Master of extraordinary ability, but he was no master technician; he (gladly) left such expertise to his more than willing and able padawan.

"She's dumping data," said a small voice from behind them, a voice that was very close to weeping. "My crafty mother never loses her cool."

Qui-Gon turned to regard young Devlyn sympathetically. "Are you familiar with this equipment, Devlyn?"

The boy smiled. "You might say that, since I built it."

"You? Built that?" Though admittedly no sort of expert on computer technology, Qui-Gon certainly knew enough to recognize state-of-the-art equipment when he saw it, even when he hadn't a clue how to operate it.

Devlyn's eyes were huge and filled with dread. "I'm what some people call a 'savant', Master Jinn. I seem to have been born knowing how to work with computers."

The Jedi gestured toward the image before them. "Dumping data?"

The boy nodded. "Almost three years ago, I set up a data drain on that module, a kind of discreet wire tap, to siphon off information, store it in a hidden, encrypted file, and feed it, at irregular intervals, to a remote location, all done at such a slow rate, and in such a random manner, that it would trigger no alarms in the system. What she just did transferred anything remaining in that file to the remote receiver, and then deleted the file from memory."

Jhevaghn, her stealthy task completed, gazed straight into the holo-lens, as if she knew her son would be watching. "Please," she said softly, not even trying to conceal the anguish in her eyes, "please, do as they ask. Take what you came here for and go. You can't help us any other way."

There came then a series of distorted, dizzying images, as the angle of the holo-cam was adjusted and refocused.

And a new face appeared before them, emerging from a soft blur to sudden painful clarity.

The face was as exquisitely beautiful as ice crystals caught on glass - and just as cold.

"Greetings, Master Jinn," said N'Vell Aji, almost purring. "I'm quite sure that this little recording will wind up in your hands, sooner or later. And you will then know that your beloved little padawan - your sweet, innocent, virtuous little child - is in my hands. Do you suppose he will still be such an innocent, virtuous babe-in-arms by the time you see this?"

She paused and pursed deep crimson lips in a sensual pout. Then she laughed. "I cannot, of course, guarantee his virtue, but I can assure you he will not be bored while he's with us."

Her face seemed to flex abruptly, and all trace of amusement was gone. What was left was a mask of malevolence, carved from glacial ice. "You took the most important person in my life away from me, Master Jinn. Did you know that? Xanatos was the center of my existence. And now, I've taken the center of yours. Whether he lives or dies - and how - is now entirely up to you.

The mask smoothed out, and the smile returned. But it was almost worse than the mask. "Such a pretty child," she said softly. "Such a temptation, I hardly know where to begin." The smile broadened. "But you need not be concerned, Master. I intend to keep you fully informed. Complete holo-tapes will be provided for you, so you can follow his progress."

She looked directly into the holo-cam and widened her eyes. "Until then, may the Force be with you, Master Jinn. Unfortunately, it seems to have deserted your little padawan."

The image blurred and was gone, leaving behind a well of silence.

It was Devlyn, frightened, desolate, desperate, who broke it. "My mother gave me my life, and Obi-Wan gave it back to me. And this woman is going to take them both away forever."

Ramal Dyprio moved to where the boy sat in a makeshift antigrav chair, and knelt beside him. "You don't know that, Devlyn. Your mother is a very clever, very determined woman. And Obi-Wan is a Jedi. Don't count them out too quickly."

The boy's eyes fell to the data storage pack from which the holo-message had come, and he dredged up a tremulous smile. "Determined doesn't even begin to cover it, Master," he said softly, fighting back tears. "She recovered all the stored data chips. It was all hidden in an underground bunker just outside the walls of the village. Somehow, she managed to retrieve it and bring it with her. That pack contains all the evidence anyone could ever need to prove what's happening on Drimula, and who's responsible."

"Are you sure?" demanded Master Ramal, realizing that their situation had just grown decidedly more complicated.

Devlyn nodded. "I put it all in that pack myself, the night I got hurt. It's magnetically shielded to protect the data, and it's encrypted with my voice print. For anyone else, it's just gibberish."

Ramal Dyprio raised his head and turned to regard Qui-Gon, knowing how difficult the next few minutes were going to be, for both of them.

The Corellian took a deep breath. "At moonset, we have to go."

Qui-Gon looked at his counterpart - and looked through him - and replied. "You're saying we just fly away."

"I'm saying we complete our mission," answered Dyprio, "as Jedi. As you've done dozens - hundreds of times."

"And leave him here."

"As you've left him before, when you had to."

Qui-Gon's eyes were haunted, but whether from memory or foreboding, it was impossible to tell. "The mission comes first."

"Yes. As always."

There was a stir near the cave's entrance, and a sound like the opening of a rusty gate, barely recognizable as the inarticulate cry of a human voice.

"You people," said Jebbitz finally, having rapidly recovered his aplomb, "have some mighty strange ideas about right and wrong. You know that?"

"We do our jobs," replied Dyprio, not really putting much effort into the reply.

The hulking Corellian eyed the Jedi with ill-concealed disgust. "And leave the kid to take the punishment."

"He's a Jedi," said Qui-Gon softly, trying to convince himself.

"He's a _kid!_ " roared the bodyguard. "And you guys operate under a different set of rules than the rest of us, I guess."

"Meaning?" Qui-Gon looked genuinely curious.

The Corellian seemed suddenly larger than he had been; larger, perhaps, than life. "We're just a bunch of pirates and petty criminals, and a few regular guys trying to do the right thing. And we don't have a lot of rules. But we got one - one that we never break. Never."

"Which would be what?"

Jebbitz faced the Jedi Master as sternly and firmly as if the formidable knight were no more significant than some tough on a Coruscant street corner. "We never leave a man behind. Never. Because we know what these people are capable of. You leave him in their hands, and what you'll get back - if you get anything back - will be nothing like the man you lost."

Qui-Gon's face was a study in frustration, but his tone was even, almost complacent. "Very admirable, Jeb, but it's your way. Not ours."

The gentle giant paused for a moment, then spat into the dirt at the Master's feet. "That's what I think of your way, Jedi. And I'm telling you that if you care about him at all, at least you'll try to find a way to kill him. Better dead, than left alive in their hands."

"He's Jedi," whispered Qui-Gon, fighting to maintain his serenity, and cringing slightly to realize that what he was saying was completely true. "He can withstand more than you can imagine."

Jebbitz nodded, eyes dark and wounded. "And we're just going to let him. Is that it?"

"If we go after him," said Ramal Dyprio, with a sigh, "we abandon what he gave himself up to save."

The big Corellian turned and moved off into the darkness, but could not resist one parting comment. "Nice, noble words - all of them. I'm sure they'll be a big comfort to him, when they've flayed the skin off him, broken most of the bones in his body, and shipped him off to the brothels for a few days. One thing's for sure; he'll never have to worry about being too pretty to be a Jedi again."

He walked out of the cavern, shaking himself, as if shaking off the stink of decay and decadence.

The silence hung stagnant and heavy again.

Until the voice of desperation snagged it and tore it. "How do I do this, Dyprio? How do I leave him - to that?"

"You've left him . . ."

"Not like this. Not in a place like this. Not . . ."

"Without a chance to tell him how you feel?"

Qui-Gon nodded, suddenly not trusting himself to speak.

"She means it, you know. If we try to get to him, she'll kill him. Without turning a hair."

Qui-Gon nodded.

"There isn't much time," said another voice, a young voice, forgotten in the revelations of the past few moments.

"What do you mean, Devlyn?" asked Dyprio gently.

"When she tripped that last transfer," replied the boy, "it flagged the system. They probably haven't noticed it yet, with all the excitement. But they will soon, and then they'll take drastic action. They won't have a choice. They can't afford for all this data to be made public."

"What kind of action?"

The boy shrugged. "So far, they've never carpet bombed the forest, but I wouldn't put it past them.

Dyprio nodded. "We can't wait for moonset," he said firmly. "We have to go now."

"I can't just . . ."

"Yes, you can. Obi-Wan went into that hellhole, so we'd have a chance to get this kid and the priest out of here. And that's what we're going to do."

"But he . . ."

"Qui-Gon," said the Corellian Master, "just because we go doesn't mean we can't come back. Now move it."

"What if he's. . ."

Dyprio just snapped. Enough, he thought, is enough. "Listen to me, you stubborn bastard," he almost snarled. "This whole debacle rests squarely on your shoulders. He wouldn't be here, if it weren't for you, if you'd done what you've been doing all your life. You chose not to do it, this time. You chose not to listen to the Force, and this is what it got you. Now, just this once, you're going to listen to me. For I'm telling you that you have to go back to being the person you were, and you have to let him be who he is."

"What are you saying?"

The Corellian sighed. "I'm saying that he's going where the Force sends him, and, if you'll open yourself to it, you'll feel it too. I've been feeling it all night, and I won't lie to you and tell you it's a good feeling. It's not, but it is right. It's what he's meant to do."

"Your companion is correct," said Mer'lioz, from the dimness of the corridor. "He is where he is meant to be, and we must leave him there. The Weapons Master left instructions that we are to get to the ship and depart at once."

Qui-Gon closed his eyes, trying to center himself, fighting for control. "She's gone after him."

"She?" Ramal Dyprio didn't bother to try to conceal his confusion.

"Yes," replied the Drimulan. "She has." 

Qui-Gon turned to face the priest. "You have the gift of prophecy. Please tell me . . ."

But the Drimulan simply shook his head wearily and stared into the darkness. "Believe me when I tell you, Jedi, that this is no gift."

 

******************* ************* ******************

 

It was as they were approaching the outer wall of the city that he heard it and almost went to his knees from the impact. Even through the strongest shielding he had ever constructed - which was very strong indeed - he heard it, heard his Master's voice, and felt the rush of love and affection and grief that accompanied the simple plea.

Qui-Gon Jinn loved him; it was not a surprise. Even in the darkest moments, he had always known it; just as he had also always known that it was not strong enough to withstand the assaults that life would throw at it. Still, it was a comfort, especially now. It was better to have been loved, albeit not terribly well, than to have been shut completely out of the Master's heart.

As for his own perspective, there was no question. He had loved his Master; more than he had ever been able to hate him, even during those dark hours of the soul when he had been so lost and alone. His heart had belonged to Qui-Gon from the very beginning; it would belong to him still, when it beat its last. Which would probably be very soon

Obi-Wan had no illusions.

What lay ahead might destroy him; might very well kill him. Whatever awaited him would bring him no joy and no comfort. That much he knew, but nothing more, except that he was where the Force told him he should be, and that would have to be enough.

As they neared the gate, Jhevaghn twisted in his arms. "Put me down," she said firmly.

"It's all right," he replied. "You're really not heavy."

She turned to stare into his eyes, and he was transfixed by the passion and determination he read in her face. "I will walk on my own two feet, to meet my destiny," she answered.

Understanding perfectly, he set her down carefully.

She laughed bitterly. "It seems that even a whore has her pride."

With a swift, almost brutal movement, he covered her mouth with his hand, hard. "Don't you say that," he snarled at her. "Don't you dare say that."

She jerked free of him. "What do you care what I say? It's the truth, isn't it? You thought so yourself."

He stared at her for a moment, then, with infinite grace, dropped to one knee and gripped her hand. "You humble me, my lady," he said softly. "I ask your forgiveness for my ignorance and arrogance, and I would be most honored, if you would allow me to escort you into the city."

She smiled. "Oh, get up, you young fool. You look like a great idiot down there in the dust."

But there was a suspicious brightness in her eyes, that he had not seen there before, and, when he rose, she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.

"You do know we're both going to die?" she said, somewhat sardonically.

"You said that already," he answered. 

"And you ignored me, as if you didn't believe it."

He smiled. "I wish I could reassure you, but I can't,"

She nodded and deliberately raised her head, tossed her long locks over her shoulder, and turned to stare down her nose at the ragtag group of beings who had just appeared at the village gate.

His smile became a grin. "Beautiful, my lady," he said softly. "Show 'em how it's done."

And, for a bare moment, it almost appeared that approaching the rabble with dignity, and grace, and fearlessness might actually work; that they might actually be handled with appropriate care.

For a moment.

Then they were grabbed, pawed, bludgeoned, and torn apart, as she was dragged off into the waiting crowd, and Obi-Wan was driven forward, to an open space in the center of the public square.

He was thrust finally to his knees, his lightsaber wrenched from his belt, and presented - trophy-style - to the uniformed figure who stood watching him, wearing a triumphant smile. On either side of the young Jedi, four brawny soldiers restrained him, and four more focused blaster rifles on his torso.

Brath Ozvey moved toward his new prisoner slowly, elegant in his exquisitely tailored uniform, and frankly delighted with this turn of events. By the gods, N'Vell Aji was undoubtedly a royal pain in the groin, but her predictions about the actions and reactions of this delectable young thing had proven to be right on the money.

Ozvey paused and looked down into a face now grimed and scraped, with a trail of blood still flowing from the corner of a bruised lip. He reached down, none too gently, and wiped the scarlet trace away. "Pretty little Jedi," he said smugly, "it would be a shame to let my comrades destroy that prettiness - too quickly."

"I thought," said Obi-Wan, managing somehow not to gasp for air around a rib he was pretty sure was cracked, "you didn't like boys."

Ozvey smiled. "I believe you once remarked that everybody liked you. I'm almost prepared to believe it. Oh, you are a treasure, Little One, and we're going to have some very interesting times together. I promise you. But first." He lifted his hand, and something cold and heavy was drawn quickly around Obi-Wan's throat, just as a strangled, ominously brief cry pierced the heavy silence behind him, and he felt a quick, white-hot surge of agony; then nothing, as the Force was ripped from him, and darkness and fear hastened in to fill the void.

It was not, of course, the first time; he had suffered Force suppression many times in his lifetime, both at the hands of enemies and antagonists, and during his Temple training. But one never got used to it; never quite remembered just how devastating that sudden emptiness could be.

He moaned softly as the collar was locked around his throat.

Ozvey reached down and tilted Obi-Wan's head up, and leaned forward until their faces were only inches apart. "Sorry, Little One, but I can't allow you access to your power source, now can I? There are far too many feeble minds around here, the kind that would be only too happy to lend a helping hand to such a sweet child."

Obi-Wan's eyes were rhymed with frost. "I'm not a child."

The General smiled. "Oh, but you are, or rather, you were. But you're about to grow up, rather faster than you would have liked, I think."

He straightened, but continued gazing down into eyes that refused to flinch. "Rather a pity, I suppose. You really are quite exquisite, in a pristine, untouched sort of way."

"Sorry," said Obi-Wan acidly, "but I'm not that, either."

Ozvey chuckled. "No, I don't suppose you are, are you? Not in a literal sense. Still, I perceive an innocence within you, that will suffice for her purposes, I believe. Pity."

The young Jedi was almost convinced that he meant it. Almost.

"Chain him," snapped Ozvey, "on his knees, stripped to the waist. And watch him well, you fools. Force or no Force, he's still Jedi to the core and can probably kill you with his bare hands between one heartbeat and the next."

Rough hands seized the Jedi and lifted him as Brath Ozvey responded to a comm signal. As tunic and undertunic were ripped from him, Obi-Wan willed himself not to feel the greedy fingers that plucked and poked and pinched at him, and dug into his flesh and intruded in every area of his body.

"Gently, you fools!" came Ozvey's harsh command, and the grasping fingers flexed, though some still continued to explore but with more caution. "If you mark him, I can promise you you'll pay for it - with marks of your own." Every eye in the crowd turned to regard their commander. "He is meant for something far more than your entertainment, although I promise you that you will be entertained, when the time is right. For now, handle him with care."

The warning, though interpreted somewhat loosely, probably saved the young Jedi quite a number of abrasions and contusions, maybe even a few minor broken bones, and, when the crowd had done with him, he found himself tightly chained to thick, metal posts, set in duracrete, each vibrating slightly, probably from a power conduit concealed beneath the dark surface. The chains themselves were of some dark duranium alloy, virtually unbreakable, even with Jedi-enhanced strength.

He was positioned on his knees, and bound tightly enough to have very little range of motion. Still, he reasoned, it could have been worse; he could have been strung up in a multitude of ways that were less comfortable. He almost smiled as he recognized his own pathetic attempt to cheer himself up. There was no bright side here; this was true darkness, and the sooner he faced it and accepted it, the better off he would be.

A wordless grumbling and a stir from the crowd as they hastened to distance themselves from the figures shoving forward toward the center of the square drew his attention, and he knew immediately that he no longer needed any reminder about the ugly quality of darkness. It stood bare and unadorned before him.

Jhevaghn Fer'mia would never again be called beautiful; in the few minutes that had passed since they had been ripped apart, someone had made sure of that. Obi-Wan stifled a gasp of pain and horror as she was flung to the ground at Ozvey's feet.

She was weeping, but she made no sound. No sound at all. 

It had probably been acid, he thought, trying to disassociate himself from the horror; trying to avoid spiraling down into semi-consciousness.

Gone was the beautiful perfect skin, smooth as porcelain, and sun-kissed to a lovely pale bronze. Gone, one luminous gray eye, flashing with courage and defiance. Gone, the exquisite symmetry of a delicate heart-shaped face. All gone. Replaced with a mass of livid scars, raw and soft and still melting into its new configuration.

The only thing that remained unchanged was the cloud of dark, silky hair, which Ozvey now used as a handle with which to drag her upright before him.

Silence fell over the crowd, affecting both the soldiers and minions of the army who controlled the area, and the Drimulan spectators who stood back from the soldiers and simply watched, eyes wide and somehow empty.

Ozvey was shaking his head, disgust plain in his eyes. "Now see what you've done, you stupid, stupid girl. Did you think we wouldn't notice? Did you think we'd allow you to destroy everything?"

Jhevaghn struggled to stand erect. She was only marginally successful, but Obi-Wan thought he had never seen anything so magnificent in his life. "You're finished here, General," she said, ignoring her own agony, and the fact that it was almost impossible now to speak clearly, given the damage to her lips. "Do with me as you will; it changes nothing. Drimula will live, when you're nothing but a pathetic memory."

The General's face suddenly wore a death's head smile. "And what of your beloved son, my dear? Did you forget about him?"

A tall, nondescript woman stepped forward, presenting a small bundle wrapped in a pale blanket. The blanket fell away, revealing a sleeping child, with dark silky hair and a pudgy, dimpled body. Cayle, cradled in the innocence of slumber.

"He is your child, as well," she answered. "Your only son. What if you never have another?" It was obvious that she wished to say more, to persuade him of the child's value to him, but she forced herself to fall silent. Her arguments would only hurt her cause, because they were her arguments. If Cayle were to be spared, it must be because the General saw the advantage of sparing him, for himself.

It was a desperate gamble, and, as she glanced at him, Obi-Wan gave her a slight nod, knowing she would understand that he was saying her gambit was well-played, whether it worked or not.

For now, there would be no decision, just as she had foreseen. Ozvey would not give her the satisfaction of a quick response; he would use her uncertainty to intensify her feelings of dread and desperation, until the very last minute.

Carelessly, Ozvey transferred the sleeping baby to its mother, never looking down at the child's face. Obi-Wan suppressed a shiver; he had a very bad feeling about this whole thing.

And he almost laughed aloud as he realized what a thoroughly stupid observation that was.

The General turned sharply and stared at the young Jedi, almost as if he had heard the silent laughter, and Obi-Wan took note of the fact that Ozvey was either extremely intuitive, or, more likely, was not without some small Force ability of his own.

Abruptly, so abruptly that his breath almost seemed to freeze in his chest, he heard his Master's voice: _Know your friends well, but know your enemies better. Any tiny scrap of knowledge, no matter how trivial it might seem, might one day make the difference between life and death._

It made absolutely no sense for the sound of that voice, so deep and rich and resonant, and absolutely unmistakable, to make him feel better. But it did, somehow. Once more, he almost smiled as he realized that it also made him slightly angry that it should be so, but there was no help for it.

_I hope you're gone from this place, Master. I hope you got them all out safely._

He paused briefly, noting that Brath Ozvey was watching him again, and coming closer.

_I hope you know . . . that I love you, whether I wanted to or not._

Total futility, of course. Even with the Force, it would have been doubtful that the message would get through, especially if the landing party had done what it was supposed to do and taken the refugees back to the Fleet. Without the Force, he might as well have been engaged in an idle daydream.

But it somehow made him feel better to have made the attempt.

The General went to one knee before him, careful to preserve the razor-sharp creases of his perfectly-fitted trousers, and regarded him in silence for some minutes. Finally, the man smiled, as he reached out and stroked the youth's jaw, almost tenderly. "No one's coming for you, you know. If they did, you'd be dead before they could get anywhere near you. Nothing is going to save you."

Obi-Wan watched silently as the man stood and walked away, pausing only to give soft-spoken orders to the guards posted around the square. And to give one more order, to Jhevaghn Fer'mia.

"See to him," he told her, with a gesture toward Obi-Wan. "You might as well comfort each other, while you can. Tomorrow, you won't remember what comfort is."

There was little they could do for each other, but she came to him anyway, cradling her sleeping child in her arms. Obi-Wan's bonds precluded him from settling into a comfortable position, and her injuries made it impossible for her to find any solace, no matter how she turned. But she grasped his hand, nevertheless, and leaned against him, the baby cradled between them.

When he lifted his head and pressed a gentle kiss against her horribly mutilated forehead, she regarded him from the one eye not covered with terrible scarring, and whispered. "When the time comes, I ask you to try to save my baby, Obi-Wan - if you can."

He nodded, then looked down as sleepy gray eyes opened and focused on his face. Cayle's smile was brighter than sunrise, as he twisted his stubby little body to allow him to lay his tiny, fisted hands against the young Jedi's chest before settling back into the warmth of slumber.

Jhevaghn lowered her head, avoiding Obi-Wan's gaze. "One more thing," she said softly. "A promise, if you can."

"Anything," he answered, and meant it.

"All my life," she whispered, "I've used my looks to enable me to do what I had to do, for myself, for my children - for my world." She paused, and a soft sob escaped her lips. "I don't want them to see me like this; my son, my father - my people. Promise me, they won't."

He frowned. "What do you . . ."

"If you survive this, and I don't . . . I'm asking you to make sure they never see me again. Do whatever you must, but promise me. OK?"

He lowered his head and waited until she looked up to meet his eyes. His smile was achingly gentle, reflecting nothing of any reaction to the ruin of her face. "You," he said softly, "will always be beautiful."

He didn't have to answer her question; she knew he would do as she asked.

The night wind sighed around them as she wept, and even the guards who walked the perimeter of the square seemed to be caught in the melancholy of the hour.

****************** ******************* ***************

Ciara felt them coming and almost cringed noting the liquid brilliance of the moonlight. They had avoided breaking comm silence to eliminate any possibility, no matter how miniscule, of intercepted messages, but their silence had grown loud and blaring and painful in her mind.

She knew what they had failed to tell her. Had known from the first, from the moment when he had disappeared into the night, broadcasting that final, wistful message to his Master.

To his Master! When she saw him again, she thought she might throttle him, right after she hugged him so hard he passed out from lack of oxygen.

In the past hour, she had run all the preliminary flight systems checks on Obi's lovely ship, even though said lovely ship was currently in the depths of a world-class snit. Ciara wasn't the only one who knew that Obi wasn't headed home. The _Angel_ knew, and Ciara doubted any of them would ever figure out how. Not that it mattered; even if the ship had remained unaware until the moment of departure, she would have known immediately that the hands guiding her starward were not those of the Master to whom she had given whatever passed for a heart, in alien star sloops.

They bolted through the moonlight, and up the boarding ramp, a sadly depleted little group. More depleted than she had expected.

Her Master, Obi's Master, and three Drimulans - older man, middle-aged woman, and disabled child.

Once within the confines of the ship, Master Jinn turned and appraised the group with weary eyes.

"He's gone," he said, not bothering to suppress a sigh.

"Did you think he wouldn't be?" asked Ramal patiently.

"No, but I hoped."

The Drimulan elder's voice was soft, and sweet with culture. "Each has gone to follow his heart. As must we."

Ciara huffed impatiently. "Not quite," she retorted, "for if I follow my heart . . ."

"You get him killed," said Master Ramal firmly. "The warnings were very specific."

"But, Master, how can we just . . ."

"You must trust in the Force, Ciara," he said gently. "You know that."

She looked up at him, and he had to struggle not to flinch at the wash of tears obscuring wine-dark eyes. "And if the Force decides that he should die?"

"What would he say if you asked him that?" Surprisingly, the question came from Qui-Gon Jinn, rather than her own Master.

She pressed rigid fingers to her temples, in a futile attempt to ease the pounding there. "He'd say that he's a Jedi, and that he must do as the Force commands, no matter the risk to his own safety."

"And do you believe that, Ciara?" asked Ramal gently.

She shut her eyes tight. "My head does. My heart says otherwise."

To her amazement, she opened her eyes to see her own feelings mirrored in the face of Qui-Gon Jinn. "Mine, too, Ciara," he answered, "but we must complete what we've begun."

She studied his expression for a moment, then smiled. "You're going back," she said firmly. "When we've delivered our guests to the Lady, you're going back."

He gave one, brief nod.

"Is that what the Force is telling you to do?" she demanded suddenly.

"Ciara," said her Master suddenly, "we don't have time for philosophical questions. We need to go now!"

She nodded. "All right." Then she impaled Master Jinn with a steely glance. "But you owe me an answer, as soon as we're safely away."

"Agreed, but you'll never get that answer if we don't make it out of the gravity well."

She moved to the pilot's seat, braced herself for the chilly reception she knew she would get from the _Angel_ , and plunged her hands into the force field.

Then she sighed. "I'd advise you guys to strap in tight," she barked. "This ship is none too thrilled with any of us right now; she wants her Master, and she doesn't much care for my explanation of why he's not here, so she may decide to space us all before it's over."

Master Qui-Gon was staring into the forest canopy when the first bloom of destruction erupted in the moonbright night.

"Oh, no," moaned Mer'lioz, as the flaming turbulence spread across the landscape before them. "Everything, everyone we left behind is just . . ."

"No," said Qui-Gon kindly. "Not everyone. Some got out in time." He turned to stare at Ciara. "As we must."

The girl's face flushed with anger. "I can't force her to take off. She wants Obi. Unless, of course, you want to get out and push."

"What I want," he replied sternly, "is for you to do what Obi-Wan would expect you to do. This is his ship, and, when he comes back, he's going to want it in one piece. Now, get us off the ground - while it still is."

During the next three minutes, Ciara muttered to herself in at least four different languages, and managed to translate the phrase 'arrogant prick' into three of them, all the while engaging various controls and panels, and activating a progression of sub-systems with no more than the flick of a finger and/or the blink of an eye.

Finally, she went marginally limp, chewed on her lip for a few seconds, closed her eyes, and sent a command through the Force that was probably heard by the youngest initiates on Coruscant. The command simply said, "Now!"

And they were airborne. Not smoothly, or prettily, of course. Not with the ease and grace and pure, feline loveliness with which the maneuvers would have been performed under the hands of the _Angel_ s Master, but smoothly enough, at least, so that no one cracked a skull or broke a wrist. 

The worst of it was no more than a few bruises and contusions, and one vagrant spark of molten wiring that somehow dislodged itself from a ceiling conduit, leapt across two meters of open space, and landed squarely in the middle of a long drift of Master Jinn's hair.

While he and the Drimulan woman - Noreilan was her name, Ciara thought - extinguished the crackling mess, the young padawan was careful to keep her hands - and her thoughts - on controlling the ship, and ignoring, as best she could, the sound that kept surging through the neural interphase which connected her to the Angel's control center, a sound that was suspiciously similar to uproarious laughter.

Ciara did not - dared not - so much as look up to meet her Master's eyes.

******************* ******************* ********************

She came to him with the first rays of morning. Somehow, it suited her sense of the macabre. This was, after all, the first day of his new life, a life he had admittedly not chosen, but might, if given sufficient incentive, come to appreciate.

She had dressed carefully for him; she would be beautiful, overwhelming - a temptress that would confound his senses, before devouring his soul.

She wore white; virginal white; pure-as-the-driven-snow white; innocent white. She would allow him to claim that innocence for his own, which he would gladly do, once she had managed to distort, and then reprogram all the things which made him Jedi.

Misdirection; illusion; generating doubts. All would contribute to what he would become.

And only she could see it. Only she knew how to go about it. Only she knew what she wanted.

It was not enough to take his body and use it for her pleasure, although she would certainly do that - and very, very soon. She felt physical hunger as she visualized that strong, young body; that beautiful, perfect face. Oh, yes, he would provide her many hours of unbelievable pleasure, and he would reap the same. 

Nor was it enough to beat him into submission, to force him to pledge himself to her out of fear and physical domination; although she would do that as well.

But none of it would fill her needs. 

Not until he came to her voluntarily, on his knees, begging for her favors, asking only to be allowed to serve her.

He must first be broken and then, rebuilt into what she wished him to be.

It would take a very long time, but the rewards would be beyond imagining. It had come to her as a revelation - an epiphany.

She had had it wrong, all along. The key to destroying the Jedi was not that useless child, nor that little abomination created in her very own laboratory.

The key was right here, already within her grasp.

Obi-Wan Kenobi: the child she would make into a man of her own design.

But first he must be broken.

N'Vell smiled. She was very, very good - at breaking.

******************* ********************** **************

Dawn found them huddled together for warmth, the baby braced between them.

Jhevaghn had finally fallen asleep, slumped against Obi-Wan's side, her head cradled on his chest. It had not been an easy sleep. Obi-Wan had tried to access some small remnant of the Force as she rested, to lend her some strength or to initiate some traces of healing, but there was nothing. It simply wasn't close enough for him to access.

In the morning light, he could see that the blisters obscuring the entire left side of her face were beginning to suppurate as the skin beneath darkened; the mortification of the flesh had begun, and infection had set in.

He was careful to remain completely still, to allow her to rest as long as she could.

Which, as it turned out, wasn't very long.

"How very charming!" said a sultry, extremely well-modulated voice. 

Obi-Wan looked up, and was momentarily blinded by the rays of the sun breaching the horizon. All he could see was a willowy shape, backlit, moving toward him slowly - sensuously.

Jhevaghn shuddered dramatically and sat up, instinctively holding her child to her breast.

The figure paused and inhaled somewhat noisily, inelegantly. "On second thought, maybe charming is the wrong word. The odor is revolting."

She moved forward again, and now Obi-Wan could see her clearly, for the first time. He didn't bother suppressing the deep sigh that welled up within him.

She leaned forward, smiling, and granting him a spectacular view of a lovely display of décolletage, as she grasped his chin with cold fingers. "Good morning, my sweet Jedi. I'm so delighted you could join us."

He cleared his throat. "Have you brought breakfast then?" he asked wryly.

She laughed, and it was the sound of tiny bells, rung by a passing breeze. "Maybe later, my clever little friend. First, I have something else in mind."

"You know," he said, speculation plain in his voice, "I could make this much, much easier on all of us. I could just co-operate, in whatever it is you want."

"Of course you could," she replied, smiling, "but why would you?"

"How could I resist such a beautiful, radiant, generous woman?"

"Generous?" she echoed, smile growing.

"Generous," he repeated. "Generous enough to treat the injuries of a poor slave girl, and spare the life of her innocent baby."

N'Vell laughed aloud, leaned forward, and grasped his face firmly. "And if I do this - if I exercise my 'generosity' - you would offer yourself, as payment? You would come willingly, to my bed, in exchange for this 'generosity'?"

He barely hesitated, and suppressed only a very small sigh. It was, after all, only sex. "I would."

The sister of Xanatos beamed. "Oh, very, very good, Little One. You're already as much a whore as she is. You're going to make my task so very, very easy."

"Task?"

She traced his face with fluttering fingers, then leaned in and bit down on his lower lip. Not terribly hard, but hard enough to draw a trickle of blood. "A poor choice of words, dear Jedi. This will be no task; this will be a labor or love."

"Love?" He almost laughed. "Whose love?"

Her smile was radiant. "Why, yours, Love. Who else?"

Again, she leaned forward, obviously intending to take a kiss - or a bite. And he knew it was a really stupid impulse, even before he did it but found himself unable to resist. This time, the blood drawn was hers.

She jerked away and stared into his eyes, and the mask of civility was suddenly gone, as if it had never been. She was unbelievably beautiful: physically perfect - body, face, everything. And she was the complete embodiment of evil. He had never before been confronted with a malevolence so complete, so without any spark of redemption.

"The child likes to play games," she said, very softly. "Excellent. I love games, Little Jedi. Shall we begin, in earnest?"

And she kicked Jhevaghn squarely in the belly, barely missing the sleeping baby.

The Drimulan woman barely made a sound; she just curled her body around her child and waited for the inevitable. Which wasn't long in coming.

"Lesson One, Little Jedi," snarled N'Vell Aji, "for your insolence, someone else will always be made to pay."

And she kicked Jhevaghn again, much harder.

"Understood?" She paused to peer into his face, her breathing heavy, her color heightened. She looked inordinately happy.

"Understood," he answered. "Please stop."

She thought about it for a moment; then she administered one more kick - the hardest of all - and little Cayle wakened at last, and began to cry.

N'Vell Aji frowned, as if she didn't enjoy the sound of a baby's wails.

Desperately, Obi-Wan strained against his bonds. "I'm sorry, My Lady," he said firmly. "It won't happen again."

She took a deep breath, favored him with a radiant smile, and settled herself before him, arranging her gown around her. "No," she agreed brightly. "It won't. But let's just be sure, shall we?"

And she leaned forward, took his face in her hands, and claimed his mouth in a kiss that was more an attack than a caress. Very carefully, he avoided any suggestion of aggression; nor did he respond.

She pushed him away abruptly, obviously disgusted.

She rose and looked down at him. "I can see you still have much to learn, young padawan."

He barely avoided wincing. To hear that word, used in that sentence, coming from her mouth - it was almost more than he could bear.

But he didn't argue, especially when little Cayle, somewhat confused and frightened by his mother's lack of response to his probing, crawled to the side of his other 'favorite person' and pulled himself up to stand braced against Obi-Wan's arm, which was somewhat numb from the tightness of his restraints.

N'Vell Aji had that look again, and Obi dared not test it. "Cayle," he urged gently, "go find Mommie. Go on. Find Mommie."

The young Jedi barely managed to avoid gasping as his tormentor extended one hand and lifted the baby's chin in order to expose his tiny face.

"What a beautiful child," she said, with a cold smile. "Quite as lovely as his mother used to be."

Cayle, ordinarily the most open and affectionate of infants, must surely have felt some dark power radiating from the woman who gazed at him so voraciously, for he pulled away from her, and buried his face against Obi-Wan's chest.

Obi-Wan leaned forward as far as he could, and brushed the baby's head with a kiss, but his eyes never wavered from N'Vell Aji's face, and there were no words to describe the terror that rose within him as he read the avarice and malice in her eyes.

There was a breathless, endless moment, and then she laughed. Now the sound had become sharper, more brittle, as she turned away from him and gazed down on the huddled figure of Jhevaghn Fer'mia.

"Get up, Whore," she said coldly, "and see to his needs. Fetch food and water, and bathe his wounds. If you do these things well, then you may tend to your brat. Understood?"

"Yes, My Lady." Jhevaghn's voice had become little more than a croak.

N'Vell smiled, pleased with the girl's subservience. "And find something to cover yourself. Your ugliness offends me."

As she walked away, she heard what the young Jedi said under his breath, and smiled. He had yet to learn that he would pay for everything he said or did which was not meant to express his adoration of her.

And calling her a Sith bitch was definitely off-limits.

Yes, a new punishment was definitely in order, but she must do everything she could to avoid becoming predictable. Keeping him off-balance was a major component of her grand design.

She had a ridiculous urge to burst into song. This was going to turn out to be a perfectly glorious day!

****************** ******************* ****************  
He had found that he had absolutely no appetite for the food she brought for him, but he ate what he could anyway, when told that they might very possibly beat her for his refusal. Besides, she added in her pragmatic way, he would need his strength for what was to come.

He regarded her calmly, ignoring the growing evidence of the decay of her skin. "Any guesses what that might be?"

She looked him straight in the eye. "You're not that stupid, Obi-Wan. She wants you in her bed, and that's where you're going to be. Eventually. In the meantime, your guess is as good as mine. But you can be sure it won't be fun."

Though he had little interest in the food, the water was something else entirely. He drank deeply - and repeatedly - and found that his head cleared somewhat, as the huge pounding ache at the base of his neck retreated somewhat, and became almost manageable. 

When she brought out antiseptic and bandages to tend his injuries, which were minor for the most part, he protested. "Use that on yourself."

She sat back and regarded him stoically for a moment. "Maybe I was wrong," she said finally. "Maybe you are that stupid."

He actually grinned. "What do you . . ."

"In the first place," she said quietly, "do you think I want to go on living, like this? And, in the second, it would make no difference anyway. I'm dying, Obi-Wan, and it doesn't matter if it ends today or tomorrow or next week. It still ends. And all I want now, all I care about, is to try to guarantee the safety of my baby. And you, if it's possible. But him first, and if that means you have to die, then I'm sorry. But that's the way it is."

He managed to nod and blink away the tears that were threatening to rise in his eyes. "I wish we'd known each other earlier," he said. "I wish we were old friends, with lots of memories to share."

"Oh, gods," she grumped, "now you're being charming. I hate charming!"

Obi-Wan had to stifle an urge to ask if she was related to a certain dark-eyed, dark-haired, hard-headed Jedi padawan.

The sound of gurgling laughter interrupted them, and they looked over to where Cayle was following the progress of a fat, green worm across a crumpled leaf.

Obi-Wan smiled. "Now that's charming."

"Charming, indeed!" And there was no mistaking that voice, cold, precise, cultured, and laced with amused condescension. 

With one hasty motion, Jhevaghn dropped heavy veiling over her face, and stepped away from Obi-Wan, moving to pick up her child.

Brath Ozvey was smiling down at N'Vell Aji, as she stared at the young Jedi with hungry eyes. The General was obviously amused, though it was impossible to determine who was the source of his amusement.

"Captain of the Guard," he called abruptly, "assemble the company."

Within moments a measured drumbeat sounded to dispel the heavy silence that hung over the village.

"The villagers, too," said the General, moving closer to the stakes to which Obi-Wan was bound.

The company of soldiers formed efficiently into ranks on three sides of the square as other soldiers, heavily armed and brutally efficient, rousted the Drimulan villagers from their homes and forced them into a roped-off area beyond the duracrete paving. The soldiers were hard-faced, impersonal, disinterested.

The villagers - blank-faced men, weary women, pale children - were just scared.

"You've been a bad boy, Little Jedi," said Ozvey, bending close, "and now you're going to pay for it. Sooner or later, you're going to figure out that it's in your best interests to behave yourself."

"Don't hurt her," said Obi-Wan. "Whatever I did, she had nothing to do with."

Ozvey chuckled. "Oh, I don't know about that, but this time at least, you'll take your own medicine."

He nodded to someone standing behind the Jedi, and huge, brutal hands moved to adjust Obi-Wan's bonds, tightening the chains painfully and jerking him upright, only to adjust the chains again.

Once the bonds were sufficiently tight to allow no range of motion at all, the owner of the huge hands walked around to confront the young prisoner, and Obi-Wan suppressed a shudder.

The man was huge - bigger, maybe, than even Obi-Wan's Corellian bodyguard, whom he would have given almost anything to have at his side right now. And the giant was fondling a long, multi-stranded lash, allowing the wire-thin strands to trail lovingly through his fingers.

N'Vell Aji said softly, "Look at me, my Jedi."

Reluctantly, Obi-Wan raised his head and met her eyes, and had no trouble at all recognizing a terrible, dark rapture within her. "Bitch I may be," she crooned, "but it's not your judgment to make. Now you pay for your presumption."

"Twenty lashes," said the General, "for a start."

"My Lady?" said Obi-Wan, maintaining eye contact.

"Save your breath," she replied. "It's much too late to bargain. You've earned your punishment, and you'll take it."

And it took every ounce of Jedi control he had not to remark that the shedding of his blood would undoubtedly provide her with glorious physical gratification. "The children, my lady," he said firmly. "They're guilty of nothing. Please. Send them inside."

"But don't you see, my little Jedi," she replied, delighted with her own logic, "this will assure that they never make such a mistake. This is a deterrent."

"Please," he repeated. "I'm begging you."

And she paused, reveling in the docility of his tone. "And if I do as you ask," she said slowly, "what do I get in return?"

"Whatever you wish," he answered. "Whatever I can give."

She smiled. "A kiss then. A real kiss, a kiss of passion, like the one you've undoubtedly already given to the little whore - before she became a walking open sore."

"Yes," he answered, biting his lip to avoid saying more.

"And . . . you will ask for your punishment. With each stroke of the lash, you will beg for more. Agreed?"

He nodded, closing his eyes against the nausea that threatened to rise within him.

With infinite grace, and using Ozvey's hand for balance, she knelt before him, to claim her prize. "Make me believe it, Little Jedi," she said coldly, "or the little ones will have a front row seat."

As he leaned forward to fulfill his obligation, she twisted slightly to allow the holocam mounted on a cross brace above them an unobstructed view.

 _It's just a kiss. It's just a kiss._ He kept telling himself that, as he summoned up an image of Solitaire in his mind, but the illusion wouldn't hold, as he felt darkness engulf him as his lips claimed hers.

Nevertheless, he had agreed to this arrangement, and he would follow it through, even if it cost him his soul. As he felt her lips open to him and forced himself to explore her mouth with his tongue, he thought that it just might.

She made sure it was a long, breathless kiss, pulling away just as he was reaching the point at which he thought he could not endure it any longer.

"Very nice, Little Jedi," she breathed, eyes dark with desire. "I have great hopes for you. Now, beg. Beg to be punished for being such a bad little Jedi."

"Please, My Lady," he replied.

"Nice," she said with a smile, "but not enough. Tell us what you want, my Obi-Wan. Tell us all."

He took a deep breath and spoke loudly. "Please punish me, My Lady, for my insolence."

For a moment, he thought she would simply ignore their arrangement and force the young ones to watch his beating, but, in the end, she relented. 

The children, eyes huge and somehow wounded, were marched back into the villagers' cottages, the last one not quite inside when the first blow fell.

And what a blow it was. The huge mercenary obviously took great pride and pleasure in his work as he put every ounce of his considerable strength into the blow, and the skin on the young Jedi's back tore and separated in a dozen different places.

"I'm waiting," said N'Vell Aji. "I can still haul them back out here."

Obi-Wan clenched his teeth, and replied. "More, please."

And so it went.

After the fifth lash, he lost count, as existence became nothing more than a confluence of fiery pain, and a voice demanding - and getting - a rote response. He felt muscle tissue spasm and shred, and nerve endings fire randomly, bathing him in exquisite agony, until his entire body was nothing more than one huge, silent scream.

In the midst of it all, somewhere between lashes eight and twelve, he thought, he raised his head and thought he had slipped into a waking dream. For a tiny moment, even the pain was remote as he found two faces in the crowd that stood watching him in silence, two faces that reflected even more horror and anguish than that shown on all the faces around them. Two faces that said that they would take his pain away, if they could.

He could not hold his head up for long and when he tried to look again, he found that his eyes had lost the ability to focus.

But they were there. He knew they were there, even without the Force to aid his perception.

They were still there, mute with anger and frustration and helplessness, when the final blow fell, and he failed to respond to the cold prompt uttered by the Princess of Telos.

Obscured by a coat of bright scarlet, he fell gratefully into unconsciousness and knew no more. 

****************** ****************** ***************

It was late afternoon when the dark confusion left him, and he felt himself dragged back to awareness. Apparently, it made no difference at all that he really didn't want to go.

He remained in his chains, in the middle of the village square, but it was obvious that some effort had been made to tend his wounds. Though his clothing was dark with dried blood, his skin had been bathed and a tingling sensation on his back suggested that some type of ointment had been applied to the massive damage inflicted there.

"Welcome back." Jhevaghn's voice was almost completely gone now. She could barely even whisper.

"How long?" he asked, still groggy.

"Several hours, but that's probably good. You lost a lot of blood, Obi."

"Jedi heal fast," he muttered.

He raised his head and looked around the square, which was now all but deserted. "Did I . . ."

"Shhh!" she hissed, very softly. "Don't ask."

He nodded, assuming, as she did, that they were being monitored.

She knelt before him then, and just sat for a while, looking into his eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Obi," she said finally. "I want you to know that, if I could have taken that punishment for you, I would have. I'm sorry you're being forced to pay a debt that isn't even yours."

But he was shaking his head. "No, Jhevaghn, you don't know the whole story. This really has nothing to do with you or Drimula. This all started many years ago. This is about revenge."

"But I brought you here. You came for me, and my son."

As if on cue, little Cayle chose that moment to crawl into view, chasing a bright, bouncing ball.

Obi-Wan's eyes were soft with affection. "It would have happened anyway, sooner or later. At least, he's worth the effort."

The young Jedi lifted his head suddenly - listening - only now becoming aware of a rising vibration in the ground beneath them.

"What is that?" she asked, rising to look around.

"Running feet," he answered, "heading this way."

"But what do you . . "

"Jhevaghn," he said abruptly, "take Cayle, and get out of the square. Hurry!"

"I won't just leave you here," she cried, torn between concern for her child and her innate sense of loyalty.

"It's not me you need to worry about," he retorted. "Do as I say. Now!"

And the tone of his voice finally did what his words could not; frightened and confused, she grabbed the baby and ran.

Unfortunately, not soon enough or fast enough.

Brath Ozvey and N'Vell Aji emerged from the base of the administrative office building just as a huge mass of mercenaries raced into the square, converging at its center. Jhevaghn was borne back toward Obi-Wan by the inertia of the crowd, Cayle giggling happily from being bounced and jostled by the uneven motions. When she tried to work her way to the edge of the crowd and thus, to freedom, she found her way blocked.

Silence settled over the square as she turned to face the man who had been her master for longer than she cared to remember, the man who had regularly abused and used her body and, coincidentally, fathered her child.

His eyes were brilliant with rage.

"We have just received some very interesting information," he announced. "Information from a valued source - a source who has provided us, in the past, with data that has invariably proven to be accurate."

His eyes swept the crowd, before coming to rest on Jhevaghn Fer'mia. "Today," he said, lowering his voice to a tone that was almost intimate, "the greatest traitor to the legitimate Drimulan government escaped from this planet, and was welcomed - with open arms, no doubt - aboard the flag ship of the Ghost fleet. Mer'lioz, the so-called High Priest of Brak'lira Fiell, is no longer on Drimula; he has run away to escape justice in the matter of fomenting insurrection."

There was a murmur from the villagers, once more gathered on the verge of the square.

"He did not accomplish this without help," continued the General.

He stepped down into the crowd and walked forward, until Jhevaghn stood before him. "Did you really think we wouldn't find out?" he asked, too softly for anyone but her to hear. "Did you think we couldn't figure out what the stolen data was, and who you gave it to?"

Obi-Wan felt tears start in his eyes as he saw a twisted smile touch the woman's distorted features. "He will accomplish all that we have ever sought. He will destroy you."

"Perhaps," he said, almost hissing, "but you will not live to see it."

So intent was he on watching the exchange between the two of them, that Obi-Wan failed to notice the approach of N'Vell Aji, until something cold and sharp was pressed against his throat, and he felt a flush of something hot and heavy surge through his bloodstream.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, twisting to look up at her.

She merely smiled. "Soon enough, Little One," she answered. "You'll see."

Brath Ozvey nodded at the two soldiers on either side of Jhevaghn, who grabbed her roughly. A third stepped forward, and grabbed little Cayle. The baby, still exhibiting the natural trust and easy affection so prevalent in his nature, squealed with delight, and turned his head to smile at Obi-Wan.

"That one," said Ozvey, gesturing toward a small cottage standing first in a line of similar cottages. "It's closest."

The two soldiers began to drag Jhevaghn toward the wooden dwelling.

"The brat, too," called N'Vell Aji, and the third soldier, totally without expression, moved to follow the others.

"My Lady," said Obi-Wan, suddenly finding that the breath had deserted his body, "what are you doing?"

"Treason must be punished, my Jedi," she answered, smiling coldly. "Even you must see that."

"The child has committed no treason," he replied hotly. "Surely you don't . . "

"Are you offering another 'deal', my Jedi?" she asked, almost purring.

"Anything," he answered. "Anything. I swear it. I'll do anything." His heart was pounding now, as Jhevaghn twisted her body in an attempt to see his face.

N'Vell leaned forward, and opened her hand, revealing a small, lozenge-shaped object. "I know you will, my Jedi, but I really don't require your willingness, you see. I never did. Soon, you'll be only too delighted to do whatever I wish."

The soldiers had reached the tiny cottage now and had tossed Jhevaghn inside, ignoring her pleas and questions. The other soldier opened the door and lobbed the baby toward his mother, who managed to catch him before he fell to the floor.

"Please!" The volume of the shriek was almost unbearable, as soldiers moved to block all the exits from the cottage. "Obi-Wan, please! Help my baby!"

Obi-Wan, unable to contain himself even though he knew it was useless, began to jerk at his restraints, and soon felt fresh blood welling in the abrasions where the chains cut into his body.

"Please, My Lady," he shouted. "Please. Don't do this. Please!"

N'Vell Aji just smiled and reached down to stroke the spiky softness of his hair.

His eyes were huge pools of despair, as the soldiers approached, a dozen of them holding heavy torches.

"No," breathed the Jedi, and something within him seemed to break, and shrivel away. "Please, no."

The flames were voracious, and the wood of the cottage was old and dry.

It was only a matter of minutes before the first scream tore through the crowd, a scream unlike anything Obi-Wan had ever heard before. He felt heavy, unfocussed, and knew that the drug N'Vell had injected into his body was effecting his perceptions. The sound of the screams was a physical pain inside his head.

"And now," said N'Vell, leaning over him, smiling still, "you'll get the full effect, my Jedi."

And she removed the Force suppressant collar, allowing Obi-Wan to fall into a pit that could only be the deepest level of hell, fall into Jhevaghn's mind and feel what she felt, and see what she saw.

And understand what he had to do.

He thought he would probably not emerge from this with his sanity intact, but he spared no thought for lamenting what could not be changed.

He reached for the Force and found his connection tainted and uncertain, caused, no doubt, by the drug in his system, but he thought he should be able to reach it well enough to do what must be done. The screams were louder now, and torn from two throats. 

He would endure what he could not change, but he would change what he could.

And, somehow, someday, there would be justice for this day, even if he did not survive to watch it happen.

His final rational thought, before he plunged into the nightmare, was that he was very probably, from this moment forward, Jedi no more.

************** ****************** ******************

There was a very old adage in the Republic, one that was probably old before there even _was_ a republic, one that had been proven true many, many times: one man cannot change a world.

Obi-Wan Kenobi was about to prove it wrong.

***************** ****************** ****************  
TBC


	31. Road's End

Chapter 31: Road's End

_Everything is settled, immovable and calm._  
_Nothing that has plagued our lives can ever do us harm_.  
_Then the voices railed against us, then the path was steep._  
_Now the sounds are softer, now the road is ended._  
_In your arms, I'll sleep._

\--- _The Messenger_ \--- Music by Elton John, Lyrics by Tim Rice

 

Futility. The hardest lesson, according to his Master.

For Obi-Wan, it certainly had been. He had learned it, through enormous trauma and with great reluctance, at the tender age of sixteen. Learned it, and never forgot. Learned it, but never really accepted the concept of inevitability.

Which was why, knowing full well the futility of the gesture, he cast out through the Force one last time, as he lifted his eyes to gaze into the faces of the regiment that surrounded him.

These were sentient creatures, all. Capable of seeing and sensing and understanding what was happening. And, most of all, capable of hearing the bloodcurdling screams issuing from the flaming cottage.

For one second, he gazed into those faces, seeking something, anything, of a spirit that must reside behind the façade. And found nothing. Blank, emotionless, bland faces, reflecting only indifference. Once, they might have been human - but no longer.

Beyond the soldiers, the villagers stood silent, and the Jedi found that he could sense nothing of their thoughts. But their eyes, though hooded, were, at least, not dead and soulless. They stared; some of them at the blazing cottage, but most of them, for whatever reason, at him.

There was no help to be found among any of them, and even if they had been willing, there was actually little they could do. Sacrificing their lives in a vain attempt to alter what was happening in this dreadful place would accomplish nothing.

Whatever could be done, only he could do, and he honestly didn't know if he could do very much at all. His grip on the Force was tentative, trembling, slick. Almost greasy, under the effect of the drug still racing through his body.

Nevertheless, it was up to him to do the only thing possible.

He could save no one, but he could ease the transition, no matter what the cost to himself.

Beyond pierced metal barricades, artificial barriers obviously designed to segregate the powerful from the powerless and to keep the native population in their designated place, augmented by the additional security of a solid line of armored soldiers wielding heavy-duty blaster rifles, the Drimulans were unmoving - totally focused. Watching the Jedi, and waiting.

Above his head, a holocam centered on his face while another caught the cold amusement reflected in the smiles of N'Vell Aji and Brath Ozvey.

Per the general's orders, the images were being shunted into a broadcast relay, and beamed to satellites for forwarding to receiving stations around the world.

It was time the Drimulans were reminded of the folly of disobedience.

Obi-Wan ignored everything, as he turned inward, seeking the strength and serenity necessary for the task at hand.

His head slumped forward, and his connection to his surroundings thinned and stretched, and faded into nothingness as he allowed the Force to lift him from his body and carry him to the place where he needed to be.

Mentally, he tried to brace himself, but nothing could really prepare him for what lay before him. He didn't allow himself time to reconsider or to reason. There was no reason here, no logic. There was only horror, and horrible pain.

Jhevaghn was barely recognizable now, barely alive as her flesh was blackened and cracked. Yet still she clung to life, for one purpose. She had made of her body a barrier, a barrier between her beloved child and the voracious greed of the flames, but she was losing the battle now. Little Cayle had begun to blister, and his pain, so much worse somehow because he could not understand it, was becoming unbearable.

Suddenly, somehow, the Drimulan woman recognized the Jedi's presence. By this time, she had lost the capacity to move, or even to reason, so consumed was she by the agony in her body. But that was nothing compared to the torture in her spirit.

_Save him. Save him. Save him._

Her mind, no longer capable of rational thought, simply repeated the only words that retained any meaning.

Obi-Wan ignored the tears that rolled freely down his own face. _I can't, Jhevaghn. I can't save him, but I can take away his pain._

He felt her response, frail and faint, but genuine, and knew that she had understood him.

Her pause was infinitesimal; just long enough to abandon all hope. _Yes._

Spirit hands, gentle and loving, reached out and touched her ravaged face, as a tender voice spoke to her heart. _You've done your best for him. Now, you may rest._

And she slipped away, just that swiftly, entrusting that which she valued above all to the tender mercies of the young Jedi who gazed at her through the Force, and saw the beautiful young woman she had always been and now, within the Force, would always be.

The shields he projected around Cayle's tiny body were the strongest he had ever managed to build, but, of course, by themselves, they were not enough. The barrier would prevent more damage, for the moment, but could do nothing about what had already occurred. To remedy that, something more was needed.

Fingers composed completely of Force energy reached out and caressed the face of the screaming baby, stroked infant skin now blistered and cracked, and left pink, healing flesh in their wake. And moved further, and healed more. And again. And again. It went on for a very long time. And, finally, a soft, sweet little face turned and saw whatever it was that the Force was projecting of the young Jedi now manipulating it, and smiled.

And in the square, there was a wordless stir among the observers. Every eye was drawn to the youth kneeling at the center of the square; even those of the sentries posted around the perimeter. The soldiers, though almost transfixed by the vision before them, were careful to limit their response to a quick indrawn breath; a glance at their commander-in-chief confirmed that they would be wise to avoid any further reaction. But it was immediately, patently obvious to everyone that the boy staked motionless before them was no longer present in that space. Rather, he had moved somehow, and was now lingering nearby, in a place where flames licked at his body.

From the Drimulans came a sound like the sigh of a cold wind through barren trees.

Obi-Wan was silent, as his skin first reddened dramatically, then broke into huge, swelling blisters.

And, within the cottage, which was now an inferno, the child stopped screaming.

"Cut him down," shrieked N'Vell Aji suddenly. "The fool will kill himself. Cut him down, and shake him out of it."

The soldiers leapt to obey, releasing Obi-Wan from his restraints with rough haste. They were successful in cutting him down; but they had no success in shaking him out of whatever it was that he was in. He remained locked away within himself, and his skin began to blacken.

"The child lives." It was just a whisper, spoken among the Drimulan observers. But it grew and swelled and became a cry of hope. "The child lives."

From a great distance, the young Jedi noticed that someone - it didn't really matter who - was attempting to attract his attention; to drag him away from his task, but he ignored them. They were unimportant; everything in his life - past, present, and future - was unimportant at this moment. There was only the eternal Now, and his purpose for being here. Maybe even his entire purpose for being, at all.

Within the cradling shelter provided by the Force, Obi-Wan's spirit body held the baby gently, suspended in a soft, luminous bubble of Force energy, as he hummed a sweet fragment of half-remembered lullaby, and managed to ignore the growing torment in his own body. But he was rapidly approaching the limit of his ability to shield the child and soon his own injuries would sap his strength and weaken his hold on awareness.

It was time.

Futility. The hardest lesson.

He gazed down at an adorable face, whole and beautiful again, and smiled into luminous gray eyes. 

_Your mother awaits you, Little One. You must go and find her, and you will live in a place where nothing will ever harm you again._

The baby reached up with soft, chubby fingers and stroked the young Jedi's face and laughed.

Outside the cottage, the crowd stood as if electrified; the laugh, soft as a breath of summer wind, had been clearly heard by everyone, even those watching the holocam feed.

Futility. The hardest lesson.

Obi-Wan dropped a breath of a kiss on a tiny forehead, and eased the child into a tranquil slumber. A slumber from which he would never awaken.

In the square outside the cottage, a cottage collapsing now upon itself, the young Jedi, who had been crouching on his knees, slowly tumbled forward and lay still, much of his body covered with second and third-degree burns.

N'Vell Aji was furious, and only barely restrained herself from grabbing a whip - or a steel pipe - and putting the boy out of his misery. Which wouldn't have required much effort.

"Damn him!" she snarled. "How dare he defy me like that?"

Maleonaka Sirvik had ventured into the square, albeit reluctantly, to observe the young Jedi's actions. He found, particularly as he got older, that he had lost his appetite for what N'Vell called "blood sport", but young Kenobi, for some unknown reason, fascinated him.

"I doubt he meant it as defiance, my dear," he drawled. "Probably never even thought about you. He just did . . . what he does. That's all."

"Get him to the healers, you idiots," she shouted to the squad of soldiers standing around him. "And if he dies, so do you."

"N'Vell," said Brath Ozvey, still sporting his characteristic sardonic smile, "that's a bit extreme, don't you think?"

"No," she snapped. "I don't."

The General was quiet for a moment, almost brooding. Finally, he looked at her, and it surprised her to note that he actually looked somber; maybe even concerned.

"What is it?" she demanded, suddenly uneasy. "What's wrong?"

He spread his hands. "Look around," he answered. "What do you see?"

Her eyes swept the square, looking for anything alarming. But there was nothing. It was quiet and totally peaceful, except for the still-flaming cottage.

"Nothing," she retorted. "I see nothing. So what?"

"So," he replied, "where are the Drimulans?"

"What do you. . ." She paused. "They must have gone inside."

"No. They didn't. They're just . . . gone."

After a moment, the Telosian princess tossed her hair off her face and looked at him with disdain. "What does it matter? Surely you're not worried about a bunch of primitive, unarmed peasants. They'll be back, when they get hungry enough."

She turned on her heel and began to move away.

"Where are you going?" he called after her.

She paused, and lifted one hand, palm open, displaying the small ceramic device she was holding. "He'll never disobey me again."

"You know," Ozvey observed, "in his condition, that thing might kill him."

If he had hoped to deter her, he was disappointed. She resumed her walk, speaking as she went. "If he's uncontrollable, he's of no use to me. Better dead, than defiant."

When she was gone, the General turned to stare out into the liquid gold of late afternoon that was lowering rapidly to twilight.

"General," said Sirvik, his tone speculative, "is she right? Are these Drimulans nothing to worry about?"

Ozvey looked up as a flock of tiny birds soared out of the tall conifers surrounding the square. "Probably," he said finally.

"But?" Sirvik was nothing if not perceptive.

"They tend to be as docile as nerfs, but even nerfs, in sufficient numbers, can wreak havoc."

"And are there sufficient numbers?"

The General smiled. "In actual fact, my friend, no one quite knows. We've been a bit busy to take a census."

Ozvey moved to follow N'Vell, but Sirvik could not quite resist one more question.

"General Ozvey - the child. It was yours?"

The commander of the Drimulan army stiffened slightly. "So she maintained. But she was a common whore, so it is unlikely that she even knew the identity of the father."

"Really? I must admit I'm a bit surprised. It was my understanding that she was reserved, for your use only. She must have been quite brave - and adventurous - if she defied you."

Ozvey turned back to face the scientist, and his smile was cold. "Dr. Sirvik, are you trying to make me angry?"

Sirvik's eyes narrowed. "But of course not, my dear general. Why would I even consider such a thing?"

The General paused before replying. "Why indeed?"

He turned and walked into the administration building without a backward glance.

Maleonaka Sirvik remained motionless, staring into the growing darkness, brooding. People, he thought abruptly, were fools. And sometimes, the most powerful people - the people with the most to lose - were the greatest fools of all.

 

******************* ********************** *******************

To say that Arain Fer'mia was furious was roughly equivalent to saying that wookiees were hairy; it didn't even begin to address the situation. The only thing that kept him from erupting into a full-blown volcanic upheaval was the knowledge that his uncle was even more distressed than he was, and with greater cause.

So he was careful to suppress his rage in Mer'lioz' presence. 

But, when the Drimulan priest, exhausted and emotionally spent, was finally persuaded to retire to his cabin for some much-needed sleep, after having made certain that Devlyn was resting easily in sickbay, the captain of the _Lady Ghost_ went hunting, and it didn't take him very long to corner his prey.

It had been a full rotation since the _Angel_ had come spiraling up from the planet's surface and quickly worked its way into the asteroid field that lay between Drimula and its nearest planetary neighbor, rendezvousing finally with Fermia's flagship, in the shadow of a huge planetoid. A full rotation, and the Captain had still not managed to dissipate his fury.

He knew the explanations; understood completely why the decisions made had been necessary; accepted the logic of it all. Which did absolutely nothing to help him overcome his rage.

His people had been left behind, left behind on a planet controlled by a mercenary army that had never demonstrated even the slightest nuance of compassion.

And, worst of all, two of those people, one blood relative and one very young man for whom he felt total responsibility, had not only been left on the surface, but actually left in the hands of the enemy.

It did not bear thinking about, which meant, of course, that it was all he could think about.

The three Jedi were all seated around a console in the cockpit of Obi-Wan's lovely ship, charts of Drimula's mountain region spread out before them.

Fer'mia stalked into the cabin, and leaned over the console, planting his fists in the middle of the chart they had been studying. "So," he said slowly, "were you planning to tell me what you're up to, or should I just wait to find out with everybody else?"

"Captain," said Qui-Gon, "we thought it might be best if you weren't . . "

"Involved?" The Ghost was not amused. "How kind of you, Master Jedi, but you forget; I have no government, or Senate or Council that I must report to. I need no one's permission to initiate a mission."

"Of course you don't," replied Qui-Gon, arms spread as if to placate a rambunctious negotiator. "But you do have a greater good to serve, don't you?"

"Depends." Fer'mia had no intention of making this easy on them.

"On what?"

"On how you define the 'greater good'. We don't abandon our people, Master Jedi. Ever. It sets bad precedent, ya know?"

"Captain," said Ramal Dyprio, "we did not, in fact, elect to abandon your people. They abandoned us."

Fer'mia's eyes sparked with feral anger. "Don't split hairs with me, Dyprio. You know what I mean."

Qui-Gon rose and turned to face the Ghost. "I'm going back, Captain. It'll be dark again in a few hours, and I'm going back to get my padawan, along with your people."

The Ghost frowned, obviously not terribly impressed. "You? By yourself? You think you're going to take on a Drimulan Regular regiment, by yourself?"

"I think," replied Qui-Gon, his voice steel sheathed in velvet, "I'm going to take my padawan back. I will not leave him in that woman's hands."

The Drimulan looked thoughtful. "You ready to tell me who this woman really is - and why she's so hot for your pad . . . for Obi-Wan?"

Master Jinn smiled, and almost looked grateful for the verbal slip. "No, Captain. Not yet. Suffice to say that I must get him away from her."

Fer'mia turned his gaze to Dyprio. "And you?"

"To Coruscant," replied the Corellian Master. "With your uncle, the boy, and the encrypted tapes. The one sure way to save Drimula is to expose the truth. In three days time, we'll appear before the Senate, and hold a major press conference. By then, the data will be completely decrypted and available for distribution across the galaxy."

The Ghost looked thoughtful. "You really believe this will work. We've tried it before, you know."

"Trust me," said Ciara Barosse with a tremulous smile, "if there's one thing I've learned in all this mess, it's that the bottom line, is money. Always. That's what drives the consortium, and that's what will force them to vacate Drimula immediately. Not that scumbags like the Trade Federation or the Corporate Sector give a flip about where their profits come from, but they can't afford to offend the Republic, or fly too much in the face of public opinion. Too much bad PR, and the public might actually get involved sufficiently to force the Senate to take some drastic economic measures."

"And why should they care what the Republic does?" asked Fer'mia, fairly certain he knew the answer but wanting it confirmed.

She sighed. "Because the Republic is like the two ton gundark."

"Excuse me?"

Ramal Dyprio chuckled softly. "It's a very old, very tired joke, Captain. 'Where does a two ton gundark sleep?' Answer: 'Anywhere he wants to.' And, in this case, the Republic is the two ton gundark. Meaning that all these corporate types can undoubtedly make plenty of money operating in the outer rim and other independent sectors, but the real money is the same place it's always been: the Republic. They won't risk the imposition of any kind of trade restrictions; it would be equivalent to financial suicide."

Fer'mia sighed. "All right. Now how does this justify one man going in to take on Ozvey's prime regiment?"

Qui-Gon allowed himself a very small sigh. "You're a tactician, Captain. The way that village is situated, how would you infiltrate it?"

"I wouldn't," snapped Fer'mia, without missing a beat. "I'm not suicidal."

"So are you suggesting that I just leave him there?"

Now it was the Captain's turn to sigh. "We do have some assets in place in the village. Other than Jhevaghn. We just don't use them unless we absolutely have to. Their position is very precarious."

Now there was definitely a spark of interest in Qui-Gon's sapphire eyes. "Are you saying they can get me in?"

"Not exactly," retorted Fer'mia. "They don't know you from a Hutt's pup"

"Then what?"

"They can get _me_ in." Fer'mia's jaw was locked hard and tight as he stared at the Jedi, daring him to disagree.

"This is not your . . ."

"Don't even say it," said the Captain coldly. "If you were going to say that it's not my place to go after him, better think again. I brought him here."

"And I forced him out of where he was," replied Qui-Gon, not quite able to grasp his customary Jedi serenity.

Fer'mia grinned. "Then we're a couple of fools," he said firmly, "and I'm willing to work together to get him out of this mess, if you are. But I'll be damned if I'm going to agree to your going in there alone. You're going to need help."

Qui-Gon was silent for a while, considering. "I'm not certain this is a good idea, Captain," he said finally. "This isn't going to be pleasant."

Fer'mia chuckled. "Not pleasant? You astonish me, Jedi. I figured it for a walk in the park."

"And, in the meantime," said Master Ramal, with a pleased smile that appeared to irritate his fellow Jedi Master to no end, "we'll take Mer'lioz and the boy to Coruscant and get things under way there to put an end to this whole debacle."

"You know, Master," said Ciara Barosse suddenly, voice lyrical, almost sultry, "it really doesn't take two of us to fly the courier. I mean, you could go back to Coruscant, and I could . . ."

"What you may do, Padawan," said Dyprio, with a smile that said he was not joking, "is go pack your things and stow them aboard the courier. We'll leave as soon as Mer'lioz wakens, and the healer releases the boy to our care."

Fer'mia grinned. "Nice try, Kid."

If looks had been lightsabers at that moment, the Captain would have been decapitated.

Qui-Gon turned to look down once more at the topographical maps of Drimula.

And then, between one breath and the next, the big man was on his knees, curled into a fetal posture, fighting for breath.

"What is it?" shouted Fer'mia. "What's wrong?"

"Burning," cried Master Jinn, his voice high-pitched and strident. "Oh, gods, he's burning. They're . . . burning him."

"Not him," said a voice, heavy, struggling for breath, from the open hatch.

Fer'mia leapt forward just in time to prevent his uncle from crashing to the deck. "A transmission," he gasped as he slumped. "From the planet."

Ramal Dyprio turned and activated the _Angel'_ s receiver, and everyone within the cockpit froze at the sight of the image that formed before them.

"No-o-o-o," breathed Qui-Gon Jinn, trying not to see, not to look at the figure bound and staked in the middle of the village square.

"Oh, Force," said Ciara, almost sobbing, "look at his skin. Look at . . ."

"I don't understand," said the Ghost. "He's nowhere near the fire. How . . ."

It was Qui-Gon who answered, in a voice that sounded suddenly ancient and unutterably weary. "He's using his Force strength to protect the child, through empathic healing and Force projected shields."

Ciara's face was awash with tears. "But that's not . . . that's impossible, Master. Not without touching. Isn't it? I always thought that was just a . . . myth."

Master Jinn sighed. "I've never seen it done before either, Padawan, but there are many stories of such things in the archives. Since he's doing it, it obviously _is_ possible. Desperation sometimes allows us to tap into powers we don't even realize we have."

Mer'lioz struggled to his feet, and Qui-Gon turned to face him squarely. The desolation in the priest's eyes was sharp and cutting, and impossible to ignore. "My daughter," said the Drimulan, "is dead. But your young man eased her anguish before her spirit left her body, and he is taking upon himself the pain and the damage to my grandson's body."

Qui-Gon nodded, lost once more in the image of his beloved padawan, unbound now, but still oblivious to everything around him, still lost within the inferno before him.

"The child is laughing," said the priest, wonder replacing the tragedy in his face. "He is reaching for your young one, and he is laughing."

Mer'lioz was no longer studying the images; he was listening to something within himself. "And Drimula has heard it. The priests, across our world, have looked into the boy's heart and understood what he has done."

Qui-Gon seemed almost not to hear, as he reached out for the warm presence that should have been so bright in his mind. He wanted - needed - to touch that gentle spirit, to reassure it and tell it that he would not abandon it; but the pain was too great. He couldn't push his way through it.

Mer'lioz turned and looked at Arain Fer'mia, and there was something indefinable, almost luminous, in his eyes. "Our world awakens, Nephew, to the call of one little more than a child himself."

"I don't understand," said the captain softly. "What do you mean?"

The priest turned once more to gaze at the image before them, to see the terrible bloom of devastation spread across the young Jedi's face and body, superceding the bloody pulp that already obscured his back. "For years upon years, I - and others like me - have tried to inspire our people; to instill in them the belief that submission to evil was wrong; that herds of sheep, in the end, only volunteer themselves for the slaughter."

Qui-Gon Jinn was nodding. "And they wouldn't hear you," he surmised.

"Couldn't hear us," corrected the priest. "Their fear was too loud in their minds."

Fer'mia studied his uncle's face. "And now?"

Mer'lioz smiled gently. "And now, this man/child has shown them the way. Has shown them that men need not die like sheep; that there can yet be dignity, even when hope is gone. That surrender to evil is simply not an option."

"You think he's inspired them?" asked Ciara Barosse, ignoring the tears still pouring down her cheeks.

The smile deepened. "No, Child. I think he's shamed them, and rightfully so." 

"Yeah," she replied, barely audible. "He's good at that."

The Drimulan priest suppressed a shudder. "The baby lives no more," he said softly. "Eased into his final sleep in the arms of your apprentice, Master Jinn."

Ramal Dyprio shuddered and turned anguished eyes toward Qui-Gon Jinn.

Obi-Wan's former Master nodded, eyes dark and haunted. "Yes. He did."

"Oh, no," said Padawan Ciara, her fingers tightly clinched, as fresh tears started in her eyes. "Please, no."

"What is it?" demanded Fer'mia, alarmed by the desperate fear he saw in her face. "What's wrong?"

"A Jedi," said Ramal Dyprio, in a voice that was almost barren - and lost, "may not use the Force to kill."

Mer'lioz looked from one Master to the other, disbelief growing in his eyes. "The child could not be saved. The only thing the boy could do was spare him the pain."

"It is forbidden," said Qui-Gon Jinn wearily. "The choice is never ours to make."

Fer'mia turned once more to the image before him, and watched the young man he had brought into this desperate conflict collapse into unconsciousness. Angrily, he reached out and swept all the charts and accumulated material off the top of the console, and raised glittering, rage-filled eyes to meet those of the Jedi Master who had cast that same young man adrift in the random winds of the galaxy. "Are you telling me," he demanded, in a soft, silken, very dangerous voice, "that by making this choice, by sparing a tiny child the agony of a fiery death, that he has forfeited his place among the Jedi?"

"Captain," said Ramal Dyprio gently, "try to understand this. To use the Force in this way opens a door - a door to the Darkside. Once opened, that door may never be completely closed again."

But Fer'mia was beyond listening to reason, if, indeed, such specious rationale could be identified as reason. "Take another look at that image, Gentlemen, and see what that young man endured, for the sake of a helpless baby. See what he's taken on himself to spare others. Then tell me again about how he's vulnerable to the Darkside."

"You don't understand." Master Jinn's voice was bleak.

"Oh, I understand," replied Fer'mia. "I understand all too well. I understand that you paragons of virtue sit up there in your holy temple, and contemplate ancient philosophies, and find profound knowledge in the petal of a flower or a drop of rain. I understand that you chant your mantras and pontificate on the meaning of life and see the universe in a snowflake. And when the necessity arises, you lower yourselves to mingle with us lesser beings, to bestow on us the blessings of your infinite wisdom and your dispassionate compassion - just as long as you don't have to get too close. Your lives - you think nothing of risking your lives; after all, according to your beliefs, when your life is done, you simply join the Force, and go on in a different form. So where's the risk?"

His voice was shaking now, as he struggled to hold on to his fury. "But what happens when more is required? What happens when the compassion becomes - passionate; when your disinterested, objective presence is not enough; when the stakes get higher. What happens, Master Jedi, when it's not your body that's at risk? What happens when it's your soul?"

Silence. Neither Jedi Master seemed inclined to attempt an answer.

Fer'mia nodded toward the image that still lingered before them. "That's what happens, unless you turn your backs and walk away. And I can't help but wonder how many times have you just . . . walked away?"

"We offer our lives," said Ciara Barosse finally. "What more can you ask?"

The Ghost looked at Qui-Gon Jinn. "You care to answer that question, Master Jedi?"

But Qui-Gon was silent.

Fer'mia sighed and walked toward the hatch. "The answer, little girl, is that, when the circumstances demand it, you offer all that you are. Your life - your spirit - your hopes, and your soul."

"Where are you going, Nephew?" asked Mer'lioz gently.

Arain Fer'mia paused for just a moment and reached out to lay his hand on the shoulder of the man who reminded him so much of his own father, dead these many years, since the earliest days of the war. "I'm going," he said finally, "to bring my people home."

"Wait, Captain," said Master Jinn, very softly. "It's better if we take the _Angel_. They won't be able to track us."

Fer'mia's eyes flashed angrily. "I thought you'd decided that he wasn't 'worthy'."

Qui-Gon returned the captain's gaze steadily. "It doesn't matter whether or not he's still Jedi. He's still Obi-Wan, and that's all that's important."

"Even if he's 'tainted'?" Deliberately, Fer'mia chose the most insulting term he could think of.

Qui-Gon Jinn focused once more on the image that still hovered before them, the last image before the holofeed had been cut off. Obi-Wan lay curled on his side, his wounds livid and ugly against the pallor of his skin, and the Master thought him more beautiful, in that moment, than he had ever been. "Obi-Wan is a child of light. He'll never be anything less. And if the Jedi won't have him, then neither will they have me."

The towering Master turned to stare at Ramal Dyprio, expecting to see condemnation and consternation in that swarthy visage. Instead, he caught a glimpse of something he had thought never to see in his Corellian counterpart. He could hardly believe it; surely he had been mistaken, as it was gone so quickly he almost convinced himself it had never been there at all.

But, in the end, he knew what he had seen. For one brief moment, this man who had been among the loudest critics of Qui-Gon's treatment of his padawan, who had scorned his so-called dignity, defining it as arrogance, and decried his lofty idealism, referring to it as bloody-minded stubbornness; this free thinker who rivaled Qui-Gon himself in terms of independence and spirit, this man who had never been his friend; this rugged, sardonic, brawling Jedi Master - was proud of him. 

Undoubtedly, it would not last the night; undoubtedly they would be ready to throttle each other by the time the hour of their departure arrived, but, for now, it felt strangely natural, and somehow very comforting.

In the meantime, Padawan Barosse was looking at him as if he'd suddenly sprouted horns in the middle of his forehead.

He gave her a gentle smile. "Have I managed to surprise you, Child?" he asked.

She nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak.

Qui-Gon reached out and cupped her chin tenderly. "What use am I, as a Jedi, or a man, if I'm unable to put him above everything else in my life? He's my padawan, and the child of my heart, and I will not leave him here."

Ciara's eyes were huge, and brilliant with tears as she stepped forward. All the resentment, all the bitterness, all the anger she had been harboring against her friend's former Master just seemed to fall away from her, and she allowed him to encircle her with strong, steady arms. "He loves you so much," she whispered, her forehead braced against his chest. "You'll never know how much, and it kills him that you don't feel the same, although he'd never tell you."

"Ciara," he replied, in a voice gone suddenly hollow, "for most of my life, I've been a solitary man. I've lived my life for duty, for the Jedi, and I've forced myself to believe that it was enough, that I didn't need anything more. I chose to believe that, because I had no idea how to reach for anything else, or how to appreciate any treasure that might come my way. And the few times I allowed myself to stray from that belief, it almost destroyed me. Believe me, Child; it's not that I don't love him with every fiber of my being. I just - I don't know how to make him understand that. I thought it was something I didn't need to know how to do, so I never learned."

She stepped back and looked up into his eyes, as he wiped away her tears. "Right now, at this moment, because of this precious gift that the Force has seen fit to bestow on me, in spite of my willfulness and blind stupidity, I know that I was wrong. That duty and honor are cold comfort, and will never be enough to compensate for everything else I might have lost. Nothing will ever be enough, except having my Obi-Wan back at my side where he belongs."

There came a soft chuckle from the direction of the hatch, and Qui-Gon lifted his eyes to meet the amused gaze of Arain Fer'mia. "Well, thank the gods," said the Ghost. "I was really beginning to believe I was going to have to take an electro-pole to your ass to get a genuine response."

The Jedi Master smiled, but it was not an altogether friendly smile. "Come along, Captain. You and I have plans to make, and things to discuss." 

Fer'mia moved forward until the two were standing almost nose-to-nose. The captain was obviously unintimidated by the Jedi's steady gaze, but he was somewhat wary. Independent and defiant he most certainly was, but definitely not stupid, and - in this galaxy, at least - one baited a Jedi at one's own risk, particularly a Jedi who seemed to be shifting into protective-parent mode.

"We will co-operate, Captain Fer'mia," said the Jedi, "and we will recover our people, but you do not give me orders. Understood?"

Fer'mia laughed, still unintimidated, but suitably warned. "We should probably take along a witness," he said smoothly.

"A witness?"

The laugh grew louder. "To make sure neither one of us can get away with murder."

After a moment of reflection, Master Jinn laughed too, very briefly.

He appreciated what Fer'mia was saying, understood his message perfectly, and was grateful for the Drimulan's willingness to co-operate in this endeavor.

But there was no time for laughter, almost no time to breathe.

N'Vell Aji - as beautiful as a Veldsprau crystal dragon, and twice as deadly - had his padawan, and a black heart full of the kind of malicious rage that had ultimately driven her brother into the full embrace of darkness; a darkness that she now intended as a shroud for Obi-Wan.

For just a moment, Qui-Gon wished that he had some scrap of prescience, something beyond the vague feelings of unrest that gripped him now. He knew full well that such feelings were useless in trying to see the future; they were probably nothing more than his own fear for his apprentice, fear that he must channel into the Force if he were to be able to function as he must.

There was nothing to indicate if he would even survive this confrontation; nothing to suggest that his padawan would either.

But he did know one thing, with certainty; if Obi-Wan were lost in the days to come, he would not be lost alone. If the padawan died, the Master would not choose to linger in a world suddenly bereft of that bright presence.

He had, belatedly, seen one incontrovertible truth; his life, without the child of his heart, was not worth the living. And if he accomplished nothing else in his lifetime, he intended to make sure that his padawan knew that before he died.

****************** ******************** ****************

_He was cowering deep in shadow, and telling himself, from a great distance, that such behavior was entirely inappropriate for a padawan learner. Jedi did not cower._

_But he did not feel like a padawan learner; in truth he did not feel much of anything, other than a dull grinding ache, lingering deep down somewhere beneath the point of actual consciousness. As, indeed, was he. Drifting, and willing to go right on drifting. Lost in a lethargy that felt as if it might be large enough and strong enough to stop the passage of time itself._

_Something whispered to him that he had no reason to try to brave the current. He had once had someplace to go - a destination - but it was gone now. He would simply drift, in the soft, yielding grayness that asked nothing of him._

_It was a bit cold here, though, for his taste. There was a trace of frost riding the wind that tugged at the clouds around him; a gentle wisp of winter chill that might have been snow; a faint chittering that might have been a fall of ice, or might have been a voice._

_A voice. Soft and unintelligible, at first, but growing clearer. A voice not heard in a very long, long time. An old voice, in a young body; a body that was colder than the ice shroud containing it. A voice that was suddenly rich with laughter - cold laughter._

_"At last," it exulted. "I always knew you'd come to me, sooner or later. I always knew he'd drive you away, and the dark would claim you."_

_The young Jedi maintained total, complete stillness; the stillness of an ice sculpture; the stillness of death._

_"I know you're awake, Obi-Wan. I know you can hear me."_

_"You're dead," said the young man, through chattering teeth. "You're just a bad dream."_

_"No, Little Brother," said the voice, soothing, somnolent, almost seductive, "I'm your worst nightmare."_

_"Don't call me that!" Sea-change eyes snapped open, and focused on a face touched by a cold, feral beauty, like frozen fire._

_Xanatos of Telos smiled, and cupped Obi-Wan's chin with gentle fingers. "Why not, Little Brother? After all, we've both been fucked, by the Master Fucker."_

_Obi-Wan jerked free of the strange caress. "Don't pretend that we have anything in common, Xanatos. You betrayed him, and tried to kill him. And he did everything he could to save you, until there was nothing more he could do."_

_The young Jedi snickered softly. "I can't believe I'm sitting here talking to a dream."_

_"A dream?" echoed the Telosian. "Maybe so, but, if so, I'm your dream, Obi-Wan. So why do you think I'm here? What are you trying to tell yourself?"_

_"Nothing," replied the Jedi. "I just need to wake up."_

_Xanatos' grin turned ugly. "I think you might want to rethink that, Brat. My sister has interesting plans for you. Like it or not, you're going to be the instrument she uses to get her revenge - and mine - on your sainted Master."_

_"Why do you hate him so?" asked Obi-Wan softly, trying to keep in mind that this couldn't possibly be the real Xanatos, but curious nevertheless; curious as he had always been._

_Xanatos, dressed, appropriately, in swirling black, rose and moved off into the veil of fog. "You know the answer to that question."_

_"No, I don't."_

_The Telosian turned back and stared at Obi-Wan with piercing sapphire eyes. "Of course, you do. Look in your heart."_

_"But I don't hate him."_

_Xanatos laughed again. "Sure you do. Almost as much as you love him."_

_Remarkably, Obi-Wan felt his lethargy fall away from him, and he sprang forward to confront his Master's failed padawan. "Did you love him?" he demanded, holding Xanatos with his own fierce gaze._

_Sapphire eyes crinkled, and glistened with a strange brilliance. "Almost," he whispered, "as much as I hated him."_

_"Riddles," snapped the young Jedi, in patent disgust. "Sometimes I wish everyone would just speak plainly."_

_Xanatos laughed yet again. "Not the Jedi way, Little Brother. How would you learn anything, if it were just spoon-fed to you?"_

_The pinburst of energy was gone as abruptly as it had come, and Obi-Wan staggered, only to have the figment of his dream steady him while he sank once more to his knees._

_"What do you care what I learn?"_

_"You're right," came the quick response. "I don't care, and neither should you, any more. You have, after all, put yourself forever beyond the pale, so to speak."_

_Obi-Wan was almost quick enough to prevent the stab of anguish from tearing completely through his consciousness. Almost. "I know."_

_There was complete silence for a moment, and the young Jedi raised weary eyes to contemplate the face of the person who had been his rival in everything he'd ever attempted to do, even before he had realized that he had a rival. Strangely, the expression in Xanatos' incredibly blue eyes was not what he expected. There was no gloating, no swagger, no smug swell of victory._

_The Telosian abruptly knelt at his side, and stared down at him. "We never had a chance, Pretty Little Brother. Neither of us, and he could never understand it. How does a god understand what it is to be mortal?"_

_Obi-Wan opened his mouth to argue, but didn't. Instead, he smiled, and accepted the fact that, after all the years of bitter resentment and all the hours spent regretting lost chances, he and Xanatos were not as different as he would have liked to believe. Their reactions to their moments of epiphany had been different, of course, but the motivation was almost identical. They had both realized, much too late unfortunately, that they could never live up to what their Master was; never stand as his equal._

_It had been a devastating blow, for both of them._

_In the dream that he knew full well was only a dream, Obi-Wan remained very still, very calm, as Xanatos of Telos leaned forward and dropped a gentle kiss on the crown of his head. "Be well, Little Brother, and know that I would spare you what lies ahead, if I could."_

_He rose swiftly and turned away._

_"Wait!" said Obi-Wan, his voice harsh and suddenly thick with need._

_Xanatos' smile was only slightly sardonic. "You have a question."_

_Tears brimmed abruptly, as Obi-Wan struggled for the right words. "Does it ever go away?"_

_Again, Xanatos knelt, then ducked his head to peer into the boy's eyes. "The hurt?"_

_Obi-Wan just nodded._

_Strong, graceful hands reached out and framed the young Jedi's face, and wiped away his tears. "No, Pretty Little Brother," said Xanatos, with no trace of his customary arrogance. "It never does."_

_A zephyr-like caress of Obi-Wan's forehead, and he was gone._

_And it was time for Obi-Wab to go, as well. As much as he wanted not to; as much as he wanted only to linger in the infinite now, where he could feel nothing._

_He sighed, closed his eyes, and reached . . ._

 

************** ****************** *******************

. . . . and grasped a reality which was like no reality he had ever known. Nothing was as it should be, or where it should be; he wasn't even sure it was _when_ it should be.

First, or, at least, most unavoidable, was the pain; pain that surrounded him like fiery liquid, invading his mind as it invaded every pore of his body; pain like he could not remember ever enduring before, that he could not dissipate.

And there lay the second part of his dilemma; the Force was nowhere to be found. He could not even sense its existence, much less tap into its power. Rational thought was almost beyond him at this point, but he thought he remembered regaining his Force connection with the removal of a suppression collar. Someone, apparently, had replaced it.

And then there was the third factor, something he could not define, something completely alien to his experience. Something that seemed to form a barrier between him and his power to control his own thoughts.

He groaned softly as he shifted on the hard surface on which he lay, and groaned again as bolts of agony tore through his battered body.

"Here, now!" snapped a sharp, nasal voice, too loud by a couple of magnitudes, from Obi-Wan's perspective. "Who loosened his restraints?"

"I did, my Lord." The response was barely more than a whisper. "The straps were cutting into his flesh."

"Yes, yes, very compassionate of you. I'm sure that will be a great comfort for you when his Jedi reflexes enable him to remove your head from your shoulders with the bare hands you have freed from their restraints."

"He is very weak, my Lord." The voice was no louder, but there was a tiny nuance of stubbornness in its tone that Obi-Wan found quite appealing. Warily, he opened one eye, and immediately wished he had not, as he found himself the center of a universe that was whipping around him at supersonic speeds.

He groaned again, and lifted a hand, looking for a handhold or an anchor. Something small and warm and very firm touched his palm and allowed his flailing fingers to close and grip tightly.

His eyes, no matter how much he concentrated, simply would not focus; he saw only confused patterns of darkness and light, which seemed to swing wildly, pole to pole.

"You see," said the nasal voice, triumphantly. "Weak, maybe, but still strong enough to latch onto whatever he touches."

The soft voice suddenly held a vein of suppressed laughter. "You may rest easy, my Lord, for an infant could break this grip. He is too weak and too disoriented to be a threat."

"In that case," said the nose man, "you may finish up here. I've got more important things to do. If I were you, I'd clean him up before you take him out of here. The draigon lady isn't going to like it if her personal little whore looks less than pretty. Get him into a bacta tank and make sure it's set for speed-healing. She's not going to be content to wait any longer than she absolutely has to."

"Doctor R'heiliu," said the soft voice, "doesn't it bother you? What she's done to him."

"Not my business," said the physician. "I just patch them up."

"But he's a Jedi. Don't you think . . ."

The nasal voice was suddenly flinty with ice. "I don't get paid to think, my dear. And neither do you. I look at him, and I see a pretty face and a lovely young body. That's all. In this place, and under these circumstances, do you really believe there's any such thing as a Jedi?"

A vague shape, roughly oval, pale and surrounded by a froth of platinum brightness, loomed within Obi-Wan's vision, and resolved itself, somewhat, into a face - small, delicate, and frowning - he thought. He opened his mouth, and found the strength to breathe a single word.

"What? What did he say?"

The frown reversed itself into a very small smile. "Jedi," came the answer, gentle, lyrical, definitely female. "He said, 'Jedi'."

"Humph," said the physician, moving toward the exit. "He's as deluded as you. Have an orderly move him down to the bacta chamber, quickly. I have no desire to get skewered, for dawdling."

The delicate face leaned close to Obi-Wan and whispered, "I wouldn't count on that. The way he was looking at you earlier, I think skewering might be exactly what he had in mind."

To his surprise, Obi-Wan almost laughed, before realizing that such an attempt was a very bad idea. 

"Wh'fma'wime?" Even he had no idea what he was trying to say.

But his companion apparently was not only proficient in reading lips, but in reading minds as well. "What's the matter is the gadget they implanted in your head, my friend."

Instinctively, he tried to reach up to explore his cranium with trembling fingers. "Be still," came the gentle insistence, as a cool hand gripped his wrist and refused to allow him to lift it further. "You'll hurt yourself."

"Where'm I?" That, at least, was relatively clear.

"You're in the base clinic, recovery area, and you're going to be all right, as soon as you spend some time in a bacta tank."

Obi-Wan tried to roll his head to the side, to see the face of the person he was talking to, but his muscles seemed to be completely unassociated with his brain, and the uneasy feeling gave rise to a surge of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. He clenched his teeth so hard that beads of sweat popped out on his forehead; above almost all things, Obi-Wan hated to throw up, and, given the odd, distorted sensations racing through his body now, he thought that even an attempt at such an action might just prove to be fatal, rather than merely unpleasant.

He clenched his eyes, and fought to steady his mind and ignore the bright pain that still radiated throughout his body. "What," he said slowly, "did they do to me?"

His vision was clearing to some small degree, and he could now determine that the woman's eyes were a crystalline blue that was almost violet. She was not a young woman, by any means, wearing a network of wrinkles across her cheeks and forehead, but there was a hint of youthful exuberance in her expression, until she sighed. "My name is Morellia," she said softly, "and I'm really sorry, Hon. They tagged you."

His mind reeled for a moment, but then he realized that, somehow, he had already known. Someone had definitely replaced the Force suppression collar around his neck, thus severing his connection to the great energy field, but now, he even felt removed from himself, as if his body would refuse to obey the commands of his mind.

"Heads up," came a soft call from across the room, undoubtedly a colleague of Morellia's. "Our lady, queen of malice, approaching."

"Be very still," said Morellia, casually adjusting the blankets that covered him and checking the bandage on the back of his neck. "Maybe she'll think you're still asleep."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, willing to obey, but knew it would prove useless in the end. He had no fear or dread of N'Vell Aji, but he did not underestimate her either; she might not have Xanatos' disciplines in controlling the Force, but she had a prodigious natural talent and, for some things, that was all that was required.

Xanatos, the sound of the name in his thoughts was suddenly strange and, for the first time within memory, not bound up with skeins of darkness and bitter resentment. 

He almost smiled. Had he actually finally managed to forgive the Telosian, _in a dream_? He thought maybe his Master might have been proud of him, which, of course, he would probably never know. But it was a nice thought anyway. He was only mildly surprised to realize that he had already come to accept the probability that he would not come out of this ordeal alive; he was somewhat more surprised to learn that he was almost beyond caring.

She stood silent beside him for several minutes, ignoring the activity of the medical staff around her, just as they ignored her. He could hear her breathing and sense her presence, even through the great echoing void that filled his mind, but nothing more. No sense of her mood or her intentions.

Thus, he was surprised when she reached out and stripped off the blankets that covered him, toe to chin, and laid chilly hands against his chest. "Open your eyes," she commanded. "I know you're awake."

Obi-Wan took a deep breath, and turned his face to look directly into her eyes. In spite of the fact that he had never before in his life read such icy malevolence in anyone's face, he refused to flinch away from her gaze.

"Such a brave child," she whispered, "and so very beautiful. You and I, Little Love, are going to have such fun together. Of course, when it's done, you won't be quite so brave - and maybe not quite so beautiful - but it can't be helped. I trust you're looking forward to it."

He found that her face, along with the entire room, was spinning in a most disconcerting manner, and decided that he'd do well to look away from her. Given her propensity for punishing others for his perceived disobedience, he thought throwing up on her might cost several people their lives, and his momentary satisfaction would hardly be worth such a cost.

She leaned forward, and brushed the back of her hand across his face, and then down his body, obviously completely unconcerned with the fact that the medical staff within the room were watching her actions surreptitiously, or even, in some cases, openly. She then placed her mouth by his ear, and whispered, "When you emerge from the bacta tank, Beautiful Child, you will come to me, and you will share my bed. You will make love to me, in any way I choose, for as long as I choose. Is that clear, my Jedi?"

"Right," he said slowly, still swallowing to maintain control. "You want to be fucked. I got it."

Long, ruby-tipped fingers wrapped themselves abruptly in his hair, and yanked viciously. "That's not what I said, my Jedi. Now, what will you do to me, when you come to my bed?"

He sighed, and murmured unintelligibly.

She smiled. "I didn't quite catch that. Repeat it, please."

"Make love to you," he said bleakly. Refusing to say it might cost someone else a life, or a limb, but, by the Force, he thought he might gag in the process.

She dipped her head suddenly, and kissed him, inflicting a vicious little bite just as she pulled away, and smiled smugly. "Yes, my Jedi. You will, in all your radiant, oh-so-recognizable loveliness. We'll send your Master an autographed holophoto, shall we?"

She reached out and pinched one dusky rose nipple - hard - before turning away to summon Morellia in a cold, ugly tone. "Get them to take him down and put him in a bacta tank, immediately. I want him completely healed and physically able to perform, by morning. Understood?"

"My Lady," said Morellia with great diffidence, "his injuries were very grave. I don't know if such a short period will be . . ."

N'Vell's hand shot out and gripped a fistful of the med technician's soft platinum hair. "I am not interested in excuses, old hag," said the princess of Telos icily. "Only results. Now, let's try this again. Do - you - understand - me?"

"Yes, My Lady. As you wish."

N'Vell smiled archly, and turned back to beam down at her victim. "Exactly. As I wish, and you, little Obi-Wan, would do well to remember that."

Obi-Wan turned his head slightly and looked beyond the princess to the corner of the room where an extraordinary-looking individual was waiting, a dramatic figure with a striking bi-colored mane and strange, faceted eyes. This was a species new to the young Jedi, he thought, although with his vision not entirely reliable at this moment, he knew he might be completely mistaken. Still, there was a bizarre quality about this person, a sensation of action suspended, of something waiting to happen. He tried to clear his eyes, to see more clearly, but the figure was gone, before he was able to complete the process.

Strange; there was definitely something odd there. Something that was coming to him, even without his ability to touch the Force. Some sense of destiny.

What utter drivel, but he couldn't quite shake it off.

Morellia had moved forward and begun to prepare him to be transferred to an anti-grav stretcher for transport to the bacta tank, but the princess of Telos was not done quite yet. Again, his eyes served him poorly, and he couldn't quite make out what she was doing as she extracted a long, thin object from some kind of security case.

"One last thing, Love," she breathed, gesturing for Morellia to wait. "One more gift for you. You might even call it, the last gift you'll ever need."

"What . . ." He never got a chance to complete the question as she plunged a blunt needle into his abdomen, then calmly emptied the contents of the syringe into his bloodstream. He gulped for air as he felt a fiery heat spread outward from the site of the injection.

"What was that?" he demanded through clenched teeth.

She smiled. "Insurance," she replied, obviously pleased with herself. "Just a little cocktail I made up especially for you, Love, to keep you close to me."

"Meaning?"

She actually laughed. "Meaning that, if you wish to stay alive, you'll make very sure that nothing happens to me." She stared into his eyes. "You're now infected, and I'm the only cure."

With a rustle of synth-silk, she was gone, and Morellia was staring down at the young Jedi, with horror blatant in her eyes. With infinite gentleness, she swabbed at the bloody mark on his abdomen, where the needle had penetrated, and covered it with a tiny bandage. Then she rearranged his blankets, tucking them close to counteract the shivering that had seized him.

When she met his eyes, she shook her head. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I don't know what it was, or what she meant."

She gently smoothed his hair away from his face, before gesturing to a waiting orderly to help her transfer him to the hovering gurney.

"Take him downstairs to the tanks," she said finally, when they had him moved, and swathed in multiple blankets, which still failed to counter the chill that gripped him.

The orderly, swathed in a surgical mask, nodded, and moved him quickly into a waiting lift.

The metal cage proceeded downward, then stopped abruptly as the orderly slammed a fist into the emergency panel.

Obi-Wan tried to lift his head to see what had happened, when he felt a familiar presence engulf his tentative grasp of reality.

With a contented sigh, he allowed himself to be enfolded in Solitaire's arms.

"P'ryn," he sighed. "I thought I was dreaming you."

She chuckled softly. "Well, I certainly hope so, but, for now, I'm quite real."

He nodded. "Can you get me out of here?"

"That's the plan, Love, but you're going to have to be patient. If I try to take you out now, the only place we're going to reach is a cemetary. But we're working on a plan, I promise you. I just need you to hang tough. OK?"

He sighed. "Looks like I don't have much choice."

"No," she replied, caressing his face gently, "you don't. Besides, you really do need the bacta treatment, and you'll be safe as long as you're in the tank."

"Did you see . ."

She kissed him gently. "I saw everything, Love. We'll figure it out, so don't worry."

"My Master?" he asked, reluctantly.

She just laid her forehead against his chest. "I don't know. Communications have been jammed, but I'm sure he's coming for you."

His smile was bittersweet. "I'm not," he said, barely audible. "I did something . . . unforgivable, by Jedi standards."

She lifted her head to quirk one eyebrow at him. "I've watched everything you've done since you got here, Love, and - if that's true - then there's something drastically wrong with their standards."

He lifted a hand to stroke her face. "Promise me one thing; don't get dead. OK?"

She nodded. "Now, I have to get you downstairs. You, however, have to promise me something."

"What's that?"

"If you have to screw that woman, don't enjoy it!"

He saw the sparkle in her eyes and grinned. "I'm counting on you to save me from a fate worse than death."

Quickly, she dropped one more kiss on his brow, as the elevator cage resumed its downward progress.

"By the way, Jeb sent you a message."

Obi-Wan winced. "I can just imagine how pissed he is at me."

She didn't bother to deny it, and chuckled softly. "He said to tell you that, even though Jedi still die sometimes, it's not going to happen today, assuming, of course, that he doesn't give in to his annoyance - and kill you himself."

**************** ****************** ******************  
tbc


	32. Coming to Confusion

Chapter 32: Coming to Confusion

_Swift as a shadow, short as any dream;_  
 _Brief as the lightning in the collied night,_  
 _That in a spleen unfolds both heaven and earth_ ,  
 _And ere a man hath power to say, 'Behold!'_  
 _The jaws of darkness do devour it up;_  
 _So quick bright things come to confusion._

\-- _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ \-- William Shakespeare

 

He absolutely despised bacta tanks. It was a fact of life that he remembered from his earliest days in the creche. And the fact that he had probably broken every conceivable record in the Temple for the length of time spent in them, over the years, had only fueled the growth of his dislike.

He had never admitted the real reason for his dislike to anyone, except once - in a moment of weakness that he would later come to regret - to his Master.

Qui-Gon, of course, had acted, as he always did, as the soul of discretion, and had never breathed a word to anyone about his padawan's very slight tendency to claustrophobia. Yet, sometimes, especially at those times when teen-aged hormones and adolescent contrariness had reared their ugly heads and prodded the youth into behaving like an obnoxious little punk, the ever-dignified Jedi Master had threatened, with grave intent, to lock the 'punk' in a closet - a dark closet - a dark, very small closet - crawling with creepy, multi-legged critters.

And then there had been the training sessions.

Only half-conscious, but completely aware of the viscous liquid flowing gently around his nude body, Obi-Wan shuddered as memories surged.

He had understood the necessity for the training, when Qui-Gon had explained, in depth, that any weakness which an adversary could exploit must be addressed and eliminated. And, though he had been in the grip of near-panic at the time, Obi-Wan had still been able to sense his Master's distress that such an ordeal was necessary for his padawan.

But distress, however keen, had never dissuaded Qui-Gon Jinn from his duty as he saw it, and it certainly wouldn't do so when the safety and well-being of his apprentice was at stake.

The boy had been given some small warning of what the training would entail, but nothing could have prepared him for the actuality. It had been horrendously difficult for him to endure it, knowing that it was done at his Master's instigation. He had told himself - repeatedly - that it was for his own good, but he had not quite been able to suppress the resentment that arose within him as the training program went on.

In actual fact, even today - long years later - some small trace of that resentment still lingered deep within his sub-conscious mind. He had never examined it, never admitted that it existed, but, somehow, had always known that it was there.

The first episode had been the easiest - and the hardest.

He had awakened to find himself locked in a black, featureless box, roughly two-and-a-half meters square, a box with no exits, no variations, utterly seamless; a box completely shielded from any outside influence, including the Force. Initially, he had managed to hold on to his Jedi tranquility. He had explored the interior of his cell (he refused to call it a 'box') with his hands and, finding absolutely nothing of interest, had settled himself as comfortably as possible and sought solace in meditation. It had worked for a while, but, as time wore on and there was absolutely no suggestion of contact from the world beyond the box, random thoughts began to form in his mind.

It was a test, of course, and it would end when his Master decided it should end. Wouldn't it? It was a test - wasn't it? His Master was somewhere nearby, watching over him, allowing him to learn this lesson. Wasn't he? Of course, he was. But . . . what if he wasn't? What if something had happened to his Master, and no one else knew he was in this awful place? Or what if he had been taken from his bed by unknown assailants? Or what if the world beyond the box no longer existed as it had before? Or what if . . .

It must have been many hours, maybe even a full day, by now, and he knew suddenly that his Master would never have left him here for such a long time, without at least letting him know that everything would be all right or, indeed, without checking to see if he was all right. Something was wrong. Something was dreadfully wrong.

He had been sobbing when Qui-Gon removed him from the box, his fingers torn and bloody from tearing at the metal that had contained him. He had been fourteen years old, and, for a while, it appeared that there might even have been significant damage to the training bond. The Master had sat for hours, simply holding the boy, rocking him gently, drying copious floods of tears, and trying to still the tremors that racked him. For his part, Obi-Wan had simply been too devastated to worry about preserving his dignity or to worry about looking like a baby.

Finally, he had grown quiet, cradled against Qui-Gon's shoulder, and soothed by the gentle strokes of the Master's huge hands against his back.

"Obi-Wan?" Qui-Gon had murmured somewhat hoarsely, and the padawan had wondered, just for a moment, if that hoarseness masked an emotion as extreme as his own had been. But then he'd quickly dismissed the notion as adolescent foolishness.

"Yes, Master?"

"We must continue this."

The apprentice had stiffened, fighting off an urge to lash out at this man who had frightened him so badly. He had tried to express his obedience, tried to give an appropriate, docile response, but found that he could not utter the proper words.

"We must, Padawan," Qui-Gon had continued. "I will not leave you this vulnerable to such torture."

Obi-Wan had drawn a deep, shuddering breath. "It was so long. I . . . I thought you'd forgotten me there. I thought . . ."

"Hush,now." The Master's manner and tone had been soothing. "I know what you thought. But it was only two hours, Padawan. Two hours, and, even though you could not sense me, I was with you the entire time. Look at me, Obi-Wan."

Blue-green eyes, luminous with unshed tears, had lifted to meet the Master's gaze, almost without flinching. Qui-Gon had smiled gently as he read the boy's embarrassment.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of, my apprentice," the Master had assured him. "What you have is a phobia, and, as such, it doesn't respond to logic and reason. It rises from another portion of your brain, a portion where rational thought is overwhelmed by emotion. And that's where we have to attack it. But there is one thing that you must understand, my Obi, before we can proceed."

Still uncertain of his voice, the boy had only nodded.

Qui-Gon had braced his padawan's face with his hands, and allowed all the warmth and affection he felt for the boy to flow through their bond as he gazed into tear-washed eyes. "I - will - never - abandon - you," he had said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. Yet, there had been no doubting the sincerity of it. The Master had never said anything in his life that he meant more than he meant that solemn vow.

The Obi-Wan now suspended in bacta, caught in a memory loop, shuddered gently, as he relived that moment.

In the end, it had taken more than six months, and eleven more sessions like the first - only worse; the size of the box gradually diminished, and the duration of the exercise increased. After the first time, Obi-Wan was never again reduced to an appearance of mindless hysteria, although he was always pale and withdrawn when taken from the box. Gradually, he learned to control the fear that inevitably rose within him, and to reject the tendrils of panic that sought to distort his mind. That he did so with ruthless determination, and by consigning his irrational terror to shielded vaults that he created deep within his darkest consciousness, vaults constructed specifically to receive and conceal that which he simply could not eliminate, vaults which would never again be opened to the light of reason, was of no interest or consequence to anyone but himself, or so he chose to believe.

The last of the exercises had seen him released from a box only one meter square after being locked away for almost eighteen hours.

He had been pale, but completely calm when it was over, deep in the concentrated serenity of meditation. And Qui-Gon Jinn had smiled at his padawan and allowed a glimmer of the pride he felt to show in his eyes.

"Excellent, Padawan," he had said. "Truly excellent. Am I now safe in assuming that we have successfully banished this particular monster?"

Obi-Wan had smiled, given a quick tug at his mental shielding, thanked the stars, any hovering deities, and one small, meddlesome green troll for the ability to erect shields stronger than cast duranium, and lied through his teeth. It was the only time he recalled ever doing so, to his Master.

"Yes, Master," he'd replied. "Thank you for helping me overcome my weakness." And the thought that immediately followed the words was successfully squelched by those self-same shields that would have done Master Yoda proud. 

_And if you think I'm ever going back in that coffin, you can think again._

Which was why, even now, all grown up and free of all Temple restrictions, if he so chose, Obi-Wan Kenobi still had to focus on the prospects of galactic peace - or the safest methods for navigating the Mougerall Nebula - or the itch in his left foot, for Force's sake, in order to prevent the rise of panic within him as the bacta held him immobile and solitary.

He would have sighed, had it been possible. The fact that he was awake was a solid indication that his release from the tank was imminent. He couldn't help being relieved at the prospect of getting out of the 'goo', as he had called it since he was four-years-old and experienced immersion - due to a fall through a plate-glass door - for the first time. But he was far from sanguine about what was to come next.

The strange surrealism, the sensation of being disconnected from reality, continued in his admittedly less than cogent mind. 

He knew about slave tags, of course, as did every sentient being. But it was almost a certainty that the device which had been inserted at the base of his brain was not one of the relatively innocuous tracking tags (which became less than innocuous if a slave strayed so far that the base homing signal was lost, thus activating the explosive device within the tag). Undoubtedly, what he had received was the brand new, state-of-the-art model - the one that included a mind-control feature.

He opened his eyes cautiously, and attempted to turn his head slightly and press his hands against the paristeel tank. When he was able to do so, without any appreciable discomfort, he decided that, either he had been wrong, and the device within him was not one of the new control models, or, far more likely, the mind control function had not yet been enabled.

Wonderful, he thought. Another first to look forward to.

Moments later, his conjecture concerning his length of stay in the tank was confirmed. Morellia entered the bacta chamber and came toward him. He didn't need Jedi senses to read the mute apology in her face as she looked up and met his eyes. Behind her, pausing in the doorway and looking extremely pleased with herself, was N'Vell Aji.

The Drimulan med tech activated the mechanism to lift him from the tank, and, once he was lowered to a waiting exam table, wrapped him in a huge absorbent blanket. Her hands were warm and very gentle, and Obi-Wan had to resist an urge to arch into her touch like a contented catling as she stroked away the bacta residue.

"You Jedi," she commented softly. "Your healing powers are remarkable."

"We aim to please," he replied, rolling bonelessly over to his stomach as she scrubbed at his back.

He hissed slightly as she reached a spot which was not, apparently, as healed as it might need to be.

Morellia sighed. "You need at least another cycle in the tank, but I don't think you're going to get it. However, it can't hurt to try."

"No," he said quickly, as she opened her mouth to protest his premature removal from the bacta. "You're wrong about that. It won't do any good, and you'll wind up calling unnecessary attention to yourself."

She gazed down at him for a moment, sweet, gentle eyes welling with tears. "You're a special one, youngling," she said softly, too softly for anyone else to hear. "You just hold on, and don't give up on us. OK?"

He gave her a quick nod and a smile, as the princess of Telos stepped forward, and pushed the med tech aside. "Good morning, my treasure," she said smugly. "You look especially lovely this morning. Fresh out of the bacta, your skin is almost glowing."

Obi-Wan swallowed - hard - and forced himself to focus. "It's probably just a reaction to your presence," he said softly.

N'Vell Aji, for a split second, looked as if a strange sequence of neurons had fired in her brain. Then she laughed, and it was not a pretty sound, especially given that it came from such a physically beautiful woman. "Are you trying to flirt with me now, my Jedi?"

"Only to please you." Obi-Wan had relatively little practice in the art of seduction, but he was doing pretty well, proceeding on nothing more than bare instinct. His rational mind was telling him that this was all a waste of time, that she could activate that control chip at any time, no matter how successful he might be in manipulating the moment, but he had to try something, no matter how doomed to failure.

N'Vell gazed down at him, in obvious delight. "Mali," she called, "come here. I want you to meet this delectable little tart that you've been drooling over."

And there behind her was the individual who had been present the day before in the recovery room, the striking figure with the bold mane and the strange, disquieting eyes, wearing a small smile, that might have held just the faintest trace of sadness. "Good morning, Young Kenobi," he said. "You look much improved."

Obi-Wan flexed a stiff, discolored shoulder. "Right. Instead of looking like I've been run over by a herd of bantha, now I look like I've been trampled by just one." He studied the face of the new arrival. "Do I know you? You seem familiar, somehow."

"Oh, we've never met. I'd remember if we had. My name is Maleonaka Sirvik."

"The geneticist," replied Obi-Wan. "Yes. I've heard of you."

N'Vell Aji, apparently deciding that she was being entirely too ignored, leaned forward. "Oh, yes, our Mali is quite renowned. He has an unparalleled genius, for creating genetic viruses." She smiled coldly. "Like the one he made for you, my Jedi. The one that ties you to me, forever."

"What do you mean?" There was an element of compulsion in Obi-Wan's voice that even the princess of Telos found almost impossible to resist, which was quite remarkable since he presently had absolutely no means of using the Force to augment his own innate abilities.

But it was Sirvik who answered. "I created a virus, using your own DNA, that will remain relatively harmless within your body, as long as you receive daily injections of serum created from N'Vell's blood."

Obi-Wan sat up slowly, and turned to face the scientist. "And if I don't?"

There was something in Sirvik's face that the young Jedi could not - quite - identify; something that might have been regret, or just a trace of indigestion. There was no way to be sure.

"Then you die, my young friend. Quickly, and painfully. Within twenty-four hours."

Obi-Wan sighed. "I assume that there's no cure."

Sirvik shrugged. "The virus is harmless to anyone but you. It wouldn't be very cost effective to develop a cure, for just one person, now would it?"

"But it was cost-effective to develop the virus?" Obi-Wan demanded.

N'Vell Aji laughed. "Of course, it wasn't. It was hideously expensive, but it was well worth it, no matter what the cost. The look on your face is priceless, my Jedi, but the look on the face of Qui-Gon Jinn, when he learns what's been done to you . . . That's going to repay me - and my brother - for everything the Jedi ever did to our family. And even then, that's only the beginning."

"What do you mean?" Obi-Wan asked softly.

She just smiled.

"There is one other way you can prolong your life," said Sirvik, abruptly, as if discomfited by his companion's vague reference, "for a while anyway. The chamber where you will go when you leave here has been specially prepared and hermetically sealed, for your protection. If N'Vell is called away, you can survive there for a week or two. You'll be ill, of course, but not fatally. Unless she doesn't return in time."

Slowly and none too steadily, Obi-Wan rose. "So my life is literally in your hands," he said, speaking more to himself than to her.

Her smile was now gleeful. "Absolutely."

He heaved a deep breath. "I think," he said slowly, "I'd rather die."

With a triumphant flourish, she raised her hand, displaying a small circular control device, which emitted a quiet hum, pulsing in time to a strobing green light.

"Too late," she said smugly, and pressed the green button.

It's doubtful that anyone knew exactly what it was that N'Vell Aji was expecting when she activated the control device of the slave tag, but it was most certainly not what she got.

Obi-Wan's eyes flared briefly, then rolled back in his head, and he went down bonelessly, in something approximating slow motion.

He was not unconscious exactly, as the fact that he was lying on the floor, staring up at a group of faces that all seemed to be speaking at one time, was not lost on him. But he could not hear them, and, even if he had heard them, it was doubtful he could have understood them.

Something, within his mind, had simply abdicated its responsibility for doing whatever it was that it ordinarily did. Synapses, undoubtedly, continued to fire; neurons went on doing what neurons do. Everything, in a word, was intact and functional; it was just disconnected somehow, from everything else.

One of the faces hovering over him appeared to be shrieking, although he could not say for sure as he couldn't hear the sound she was making. Hers was quite a spectacular face, actually, but it seemed to leave him cold. Cold. Yes, he was cold. That, at least, might qualify as a coherent thought. A second face, a really bizarre-looking face, looked uneasy - even alarmed - but hardly panicky. The third face, careworn and pallid, seemed to smile down on him, a tender smile that was filled with benevolence.

Obi-Wan smiled back, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

**************************** *************************

In the end, there were just the two of them, much to the displeasure of a substantial percentage of the crew of the _Lady Ghost_. 

They had discussed taking a full landing party along with them, but agreed finally that it would serve no purpose.

The Resistance simply didn't have the numbers available to mount a frontal-assault-type rescue. If the Jedi Master and the Ghost could not find a way, via stealth and deceit, there would ultimately be no rescue.

When they had reached that conclusion, the two had stared at each other for a moment, and said no more. Any additional comments would only have been superfluous. "I won't leave him in that woman's hands." Qui-Gon had repeated those words more than once, and both of them, along with Ramal Dyprio, knew exactly what they meant.

Qui-Gon spent the final moments before the _Angel_ 's lift-off checking and rechecking the power settings on his lightsaber, as well as the spare crystals he carried in his belt. A Jedi's lightsaber was his most precious and most personal possession, and must always be maintained in perfect working order, as it might, at any time, be needed to save a life, either that of its owner, or of someone else. But it would never be quite so critical that his saber function perfectly as it would in the days ahead. He could not afford even the slimmest possibility of failure.

This blade, built by his own hands, would either save his padawan, and bring him safely home, or put him forever beyond the reach of the cruel Darkness that hungered for him so intensely. Obi-Wan would not pay for the sins of his Master; his innocence would not be ransomed for revenge against the Jedi. Qui-Gon would simply not allow it.

He wasn't even entirely sure that the actions he would take would be considered proper for a Jedi; he knew only that he was doing what he must. He had spent the hours prior to their departure deep in meditation, trying to reach out through the Force and catch some brief sense of his apprentice, and, even more importantly, trying to decipher the message the Force was sending to him. 

Once or twice, he thought he might have brushed against Obi-Wan's consciousness, but he couldn't be sure. There were great swirls of disturbance strobing through the Force, and his ability to evaluate his impressions was severely compromised. And, he admitted to himself, his distress over his padawan's dilemma also distorted his perceptions.

Finally, he pulled free of the somnolent remnants of his meditative state, and moved to embrace what lay ahead. He was doing what the Force commanded; he could do no less. 

The departure proved to be an adventure in itself, as Obi-Wan's beautiful little ship turned out to be something of a primadonna. It definitely wasn't happy with anyone other than its master sitting at the helm. It actually took three attempts to convince the recalcitrant vessel that the mission they were undertaking was meant to bring that selfsame Master home. And even then, the flight to Drimula, while sufficiently circumspect to evade detection by Drimulan scanners, felt more like a roller-coaster ride than a routine transit. 

The ship seemed particularly spiteful towards Qui-Gon, and he didn't bother trying to figure out why. In the end, he thought he was better off not knowing.

For his part, Arain Fer'mia stayed busy monitoring the ship's systems, paying particular attention to sensor sweeps. Despite the vessel's apparently limitless ability to elude detection, the Ghost was a great believer in redundancy; he would not rely on alien technology alone.

Besides, paying attention to the instruments allowed him to not pay attention to the Jedi Master beside him, and that, he thought, was a very good idea.

Twice in recent days, the _Angel_ had assaulted Master Jinn in a very direct, unsubtle way; the Master had taken steps to assure that the semi-sentient vessel would not find it easy to do so again.

When Fer'mia and Dyprio had turned to acknowledge the Master's arrival on the flight deck, dead silence had fallen. Fer'mia thought he would never know how he had managed to hold on to his decorum and refrain from collapsing to the deck in a howling fit of laughter, and a quick glance at Dyprio had revealed that the Corellian was being similarly tested.

Master Jinn had drawn himself up to his full, impressive height, stared down the considerable length of his once-broken nose, and sniffed loudly. "I'm told," he had said sternly, "that it's called a 'snood'. Whatever the terminology, it will serve to avoid a potential problem."

He had strode up the Angel's boarding ramp, his long, flowing mane firmly and completely secured within a bag-like pouch of some kind of poly-leather, tied off with thin rawhide strips. Behind him, Fer'mia and Dyprio had been exceptionally careful not to meet each others' eyes.

A soft chime on the comm board drew the Ghost's attention. "The _Lady_ confirms the launch of Dyprio's courier. They should be on Coruscant late tomorrow."

Qui-Gon nodded and activated a hailing frequency. "This is Jinn," he said quietly, avoiding anything other than bare bones information, just in case there were avid ears listening.

"Dyprio," came the immediate answer.

"May the Force be with you, Master Ramal, Padawan Barosse. And please convey my respects to your companions."

"We'll do that," came the response. "May the Force be with you, and your padawan."

Qui-Gon looked over at the comm panel, preparing to disengage, when another voice came through. "Bring him back to us, Master Jinn," it said, soft, lyrical, pleading. "Please."

Qui-Gon smiled. "I would not dare disappoint such a lovely lady."

There was a very pregnant pause, as everyone on both ships knew that Ciara Barosse was debating whether or not to accept his statement at face value, or to tell him to stick his sarcasm in his ear.

In the end, she opted for graciousness, but it was a near thing.

Qui-Gon Jinn and Rain Fer'mia exchanged fond smiles; the girl was definitely an inspiration; neither one was willing to contemplate facing her with an admission of failure, which only served to ratchet up their determination another notch. Failure was simply not an option.

********************** *****************************

"I do not want to hear this," snarled N'Vell Aji, so furious that she was far beyond any capability for rational thought. "There has to be another alternative. I won't accept this."

Maleonaka Sirvik bit down on his own tongue to avoid smiling. Like her predecessors on the unfortunate planet, Telos, the princess was entirely capable of venting her prodigious anger on the purveyor of bad tidings. "Killing the Messenger" had been almost an official pastime on that dark world. "N'Vell," he said, very softly, soothingly, "you knew this possibility existed. These devices have never been tested on Jedi. Given that his higher brain functions differ from those of non-Force users, it's hardly surprising that impulses which control others simply scramble his brain activity."

"Fix it," she demanded, her eyes moving back and forth between Sirvik and the base physician.

"I can't," said Sirvik, with a sigh. Sometimes, there was nothing for it but to face the music. "No one can. It simply won't work on him, and, if you insist on continuing to try to engage it, it will very likely just shut his brain down altogether, and kill him. After going to so much trouble to get him, is that what you really want?"

"What I want," she said through clenched teeth, "is his obedience. Complete, total, instant obedience."

Sirvik studied her face, careful to bury the nuance of distaste that was rising within him. How, he wondered, could such an angelic exterior contain such a vile, malevolent core. "Listen to me, N'Vell," he said firmly, "and I would prefer not to have to repeat myself, so listen well. The boy is already traumatized from the injuries he's suffered, injuries requiring a great deal more healing than he's had. On top of that, you've put a Force-suppressor on him, which is extremely traumatic for Force-users. You've injected him with a virus that is constantly waging war in his bloodstream against his immune system, a war, I might add, that he's constantly losing, to some degree, until an injection of the serum regains the ground he's lost. But he's still sick, all the time; he's just not fatally sick, for the moment. Now, on top of all that, you insist on activating this control device. By the gods, how much do you suppose his body can endure before it just shuts down? If he were anything less than Jedi, he'd be dead already." His eyes were suddenly very bright, and filled with something that might have been defiance. "What you want, in this instance, you cannot have. You must deal with what is real."

N'Vell Aji stood looking down at the lithe body draped across the gurney, and, for just a moment, Mali Sirvik thought that she had been pushed too far; that her capacity for rational thought had been lost under the crystalline purity of her fury. Only the princess of Telos knew for sure how close she came to simply picking up a scalpel and slicing through the flesh of that tender, young throat, severing airways and arteries, and allowing herself to indulge in the intense erotic pleasure of watching the boy drown in a gushing river of his own blood, but Sirvik was convinced that the margin of victory of reason over rage had been thin indeed.

"Take him to the bedchamber," she said abruptly, a hard gleam flaring in her eyes. "As much as I am disappointed by his inability to perform, I see no reason why we shouldn't proceed as planned. Master Jinn will be disappointed, of course, that he can't actually witness the corruption of his precious padawan, but I think we can arrange the scene in such a way that he will be none the wiser."

She turned to survey the face of her oldest friend and colleague, and a vague speculation was clear to read in her eyes. "Don't you agree, Mali?"

Sirvik smiled. He had not reached his current station in life without knowing when to raise, when to call, when to fold - and when to stand pat.

"Absolutely, my dear. If you like, I'll see that the stage is properly set."

With that, he made his exit, and the sister of Xanatos was left alone at the patient's side. He was breathing very shallowly, and his skin was very pale, but not unattractively so. There was a pearlescent quality in his coloring that N'Vell found intensely erotic. She leaned over him, and studied his face, and was compelled to trace the lines of his features with cool, dispassionate fingers. Unfortunately, they would have to remain dispassionate; she would not risk her prize for the satisfaction of a fleeting lust, no matter how compelling; he would serve a much higher purpose once her task on this dreadful planet was complete. He would make her a very wealthy woman; well, a much wealthier woman than she already was, and even more importantly, he would be the instrument of her revenge, not just once, but repeatedly, throughout many long years. She wasn't entirely sure what her mysterious client wanted with the boy, but she knew enough to conclude that he would somehow be forced to provide the key for the destruction of the knighthood, a conclusion most devoutly to be wished, from N'Vell's point of view.

No, she would not risk that, for the pleasure of using his young body. She drew a deep breath, but, oh, my, it would almost be worth it. He really was quite exquisite. She claimed his lips, chilled, now, and still, in a bruising kiss, and then nibbled her way down the cleft of his chin to the softness beneath his jawline, where she bit down hard enough to draw a thin line of scarlet, and bruise the tender flesh around it.

They were coming for him now, and she straightened and touched the laceration with her palm. "Mine, my Jedi," she said softly, bending to speak directly into his ear. "Whether or not you can hear me matters little. From this day forward, you are mine, and what is mine remains mine - forever."

Obi-Wan shivered suddenly, and N'Vell Aji smiled.

********************** **************************

"Just the two of you?" demanded Solitaire, back in full armor, as Jinn and Fer'mea completed their camouflage of the _Angel_. Although, given the ship's testy nature, their precautions were probably both unwarranted and unnecessary.

"Just us," replied the Ghost, then opened one of the two insulated cases he had unloaded from the ship's cargo bay. "And a few of our closest friends." Cradled in the web of an anti-mag, anti-grav field were dozens of very small, but very lethal thermal detonators.

Solitaire nodded briskly. "Now we just have to figure out how to deliver them."

"Delivery," said Master Jinn, eyes sweeping the area around them, "will not be a problem. However, since these devices are rather undiscriminating about whose flesh they mangle, I would prefer not to use them unless we have no choice."

"Well, that's all well and good," said Fer'mia, "but your Jedi scruples may not count for much in this situation. In case you haven't noticed, we don't have many advantages here."

"Maybe," said Solitaire abruptly, holding a hand up to forestall Fer'mia's continuing tirade, "we have more than you think."

The Drimulan's eyes were dagger-sharp. "Meaning?"

"Meaning that you're right in one sense; we don't have enough weapons to blow Ozvey's nose, but there's one thing we have in abundance."

"I don't understand," said Qui-Gon, trying to hold on to his patience, which was a task in itself due to his steadily rising concern about his padawan. "What are you talking about?"

The Weapons Master drew a deep breath. "I'm talking about the fact that your boy created a miracle, Master Jedi. I have no idea how he did it, or how they know about it, or what the Drimulans think they're going to accomplish, but we've suddenly got more Resistance fighters than we know what to do with." She turned to face Arain Fer'mia. "There's even a rumor that the mines are empty - that everyone just stood up and walked away. The ones that didn't get shot down, that is."

Qui-Gon regarded Solitaire and her captain with dark, solemn eyes. "Cannon fodder, Captain?"

Fer'mia's gaze was cold. "If necessary, Jedi, but let's hope it won't come to that."

"And if it does?"

The Drimulan refused to flinch. "You've directed battles before, Jinn, and you know that men are lost sometimes, when objectives must be taken. It's war, and the losses today may prevent ten times their number - or a thousand times their number - tomorrow. It's time to put a stop to this, and we will do what we must."

"The Republic will .. . .

"Whatever the Republic will do," interrupted Solitaire, "will be too late to save your padawan, and might be too late to save Drimula at all."

The Master's eyes softened. "My padawan," he said gently, "will meet his fate as a Jedi. He would not thank any of us if we sacrifice others in order to save him."

"And you're prepared to let him," observed Fer'mia, looking and sounding as if he didn't know what to believe.

"Captain," said Qui-Gon steadily, "there's no time for me to explain Jedi philosophy to you, but understand this, if you never understand anything else. Obi-Wan is a Jedi, through and through. It's what he chose to be, what he was meant to be. He's spent his entire life putting himself into situations just like this one; offering up his life, when necessary, to save the lives of others. If I take that away from him, I dishonor what he is. So understand me well. I will do everything within my power to save my apprentice; he is more precious to me than you can possibly imagine, but I will not negate the value of what he is. I will not trivialize the sacrifice he is willing to make. Are we clear on that?"

"So are you saying you won't kill, to keep him from being killed?"

Something large and dark and very hard rose then in the Master's eyes. "No, Captain. I have no problem with killing those who would kill him, but I won't allow the sacrifice of innocent lives, and neither would he."

Solitaire had turned and was staring into the surrounding forest. "In that case," she said abruptly, "we may have a problem."

Neither the Jedi nor the Drimulan bothered asking what she meant; it was immediately obvious.

At first, they stepped forth in groups of three or four; then they came by the dozen; and finally, they were just suddenly there, silent, motionless, packed solidly in the clearing in which the _Angel_ sat, and ranging back beneath the forest's canopy. Not even Qui-Gon's Jedi sense was adequate to keep an accurate count.

In the end, they numbered in the hundreds, maybe even the thousands, with more arriving every moment.

"How did they know?" asked the Jedi, eyes wide with wonder.

Fer'mia's face was lit with a beatific smile. "The priests know. I can't explain it, but, somehow, they know. My uncle always claimed that the planet spoke to him. I guess it's as good an explanation as any."

One of the new arrivals, very tall and broad-chested, with deep-carved features and deeply weathered skin, stepped forward. "Son of Kerchevil," he said to Captain Fer'mia, "I am Parai Elzair. Today we have listened to the words of Mer'lioz, and we know what lies ahead. And we have seen the pure heart of the boy who burns to remove the pain of a child, and we are shamed that such purity should be sacrificed on the altar of our craven fears. For too long, we have bowed before the power of Evil."

Elzair took a deep breath, and stood very tall. He wore dignity like a cloak gathered close around him. "Today, we bow no more. And we allow no more sacrifices in our holy places. Today, we reclaim our world."

Qui-Gon Jinn sighed, and prepared to tread very carefully. He had no wish to offend these brave people, but their bare hands and brawny bodies would be no match for the heavy arms of the mercenary soldiers, and he could not allow them to lay down their lives needlessly, not even to save his beloved padawan.

"Please, Parai," he said softly. "It is very brave of you to wish to do this, but . . ."

"You will tell us that we cannot win, against the weapons of these so-called Peacekeepers," said the priest. "Is that not so?"

The Jedi nodded. "Yes. That's the ugly truth."

The priest's eyes crinkled slightly. "And will you go after the one you call 'padawan'?"

"Yes."

"Even though you are outnumbered?"

"Yes, but he is my responsibility, my student. I am sworn to protect him."

"And if you had no weapon," said the priest, "would you still go?"

Qui-Gon was quite aware that he was being manipulated, but couldn't quite see a way to extricate himself. "Yes, I would still go."

"Because he is your responsibility?"

"Yes."

"Because it is the right thing to do?"

"Yes."

"And when he offered up his own suffering, to spare a helpless infant, was it because it was his responsibility?"

Qui-Gon paused. "Not exactly, perhaps, but . . ."

"But it was the right thing to do, was it not?'

"Yes."

"Why?"

The Jedi was trying, without remarkable success, to hold on to his patience. "Because he could."

Elzair's smile was brilliant. "Exactly."

Arain Fer'mia managed, barely, not to laugh aloud when the Jedi turned bright red, acknowledging that he had been outmaneuvered.

"There's another problem, too," said Solitaire. "A big one."

Qui-Gon stifled another sigh. "You know," he observed, to no one in particular, "I think I should have found myself a good bookie before we came here. Because I would have bet big money that somebody was going to say that."

"There's a 'final solution'," she said firmly. "Jebbitz got a look at it."

The Jedi turned to face the big Corellian, and noted that he was more disturbed - more shaken - than he had been even when Obi-Wan had disappeared.

Jebbitz turned to Fer'mia, and spoke in a tremulous voice. "You remember the weapon we designed, the contamination torpedo?"

"I remember," replied Fer'mia, and felt a huge shadow of foreboding rise up inside him.

The Corellian could barely speak, he was so perturbed. "We weren't the only ones to think of it. They built one too, and it's tied in to the shielding generators for the base. If they go into emergency overload, the energy dump will trigger the device."

Fer'mia turned slowly, to meet the eyes of the priest who stood behind him. "But why? Why would they do that? It makes no sense. If they're going to be forced to pull out anyway, why . . "

"This device," said Qui-Gon softly, insistently. "What does it do?"

"It will trigger a chain reaction throughout the layers of tagmonditurium, a chemical reaction that will release enormous levels of toxic fumes. It will kill anyone it touches." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Millions will die."

"And you designed such a device yourself?" The Jedi was quivering with rage.

Fer'mia stood tall, and glared into the Master's eyes. "We did, as a last resort. Better that millions die, than tens of millions, as would have happened if the mining were allowed to continue. Eventually, our planet would have been lifeless. To prevent that, we were prepared to do whatever we had to."

Qui-Gon was speechless for a moment, trying to wrap his mind around the quality of desperation required to motivate such measures. In no way could anyone have characterized him as naïve; he and malevolence were acquaintances of long standing, but the level of evil present in the plunder of this world was almost beyond his capacity to grasp, and his padawan was held captive by those who had perpetrated and perpetuated this incredible horror.

Finally, he turned back to Solitaire. "Have you seen him?"

She nodded and, knowing there was no easy way, decided to just spit it out, without picking and choosing her words. "Not good. They've tagged him, and he's been injected with something. I couldn't find out what it was, but there's a rack of syringes in the chiller in the medical bay that are marked for his use only."

The Master nodded. "So we'll have to deactivate the tag before we can even consider taking him out, always assuming we can even get to him."

Solitaire huffed a deep breath. "Even that isn't so simple. The tag is one of the new kind, with the mind control function. It's a lot more complex than a simple explosive device; I'm not even sure it can be removed, safely or otherwise. The technician who told me about the cursed thing said that it grows into the ganglia of the brain over a period of time."

Rain Fer'mia sighed. "How much time?"

The Weapons Master shook her head. "Unknown. Hours, maybe. Days, at the most."

"Have you found a way in yet?"

Solitaire gestured for the Drimulan priest to step forward. "It would have taken me months to find it," the mechanical voice intoned. "Luckily, they already knew where it was."

Elzair smiled. "The entire base is built on a hill of caffiera stone, covered by a few meters of soil. Beneath the caffiera are a series of caverns, formed when this area was tectonically unstable, many millennia ago."

"Why didn't their mapping equipment pick up on this?" asked Qui-Gon, certain that an individual as knowledgeable in military tactics and history as Brath Ozvey would not overlook such a vulnerability beneath his primary base.

"Caffiera is a mysterious substance, Master Jedi. Some say it is even semi-sentient, although I make no such claims. I do however, know one thing about it. It confounds scanning devices, fracturing and refracting signals so completely that, in the end, the scans are completely uninformative."

"And I take it there's access from these caverns?" asked Qui-Gon.

"With a little effort, yes," replied Elzair. "The entrances have been concealed for years, and unused. Yet, somehow, even though most of us had no heart to resist the actions of the tyrants who controlled our lives, no one ever informed our gracious rulers of the existence of these subterranean passages."

"Perhaps your people were more resistant than you believed," observed the Jedi.

Elzair's smile was rueful. "I think it likely the explanation is something far simpler."

"Such as?"

"They never asked," answered the priest, absolutely expressionless.

Qui-Gon Jinn looked up and met the eyes of Arain Fer'mia, and both men burst into gentle laughter.

"Let's go," said Fer'mia, suddenly - irrationally, perhaps - more optimistic that he probably had any reason to be.

It was at that moment, however, that a beeping sound erupted from the pack on Solitaire's shoulder.

"The _Lady_ is hailing us," said the Weapons Master, as she opened the channel.

A slightly blurred image of Palani, seated at a helm console, eyes downcast and shadowed, formed in midair between them. "Rain, do you copy? This is _Lady Ghost_."

"Copy, _Lady_ ," replied the captain. "This is Fer'mia."

The statuesque first mate avoided looking directly into the holo pick-up. "We've received a transmission," she said flatly.

"From?"

"You'll see," she replied, head still averted. "I'm loading it now to forward to you."

"Lani," said Fer'mia softly, "are you . . "

"Am I what?" she snapped, defiance hard and bright in her voice, but she still wasn't looking into the holocam.

"Nothing," he said gently, realizing that he really didn't need to see. This, he thought, was one mother of a red-letter day. He had known her for more than a dozen years, and he had never seen her cry before. Not once. Not even at those times when they had been forced to bury the bodies of their own dead, or those of innocent victims of carnage perpetrated by the mercenaries or generated by the side-effects of the mining operations. Once, they had even been forced to torch a school building, when it was discovered that all those within, ranging in age from seven to fourteen cycles, had succumbed to a virulent, deadly form of Phlebilan plague. And through all of that, Palani Vau-Bremayne had never cried. Not once. She had remained stone-faced, remote - untouched and untouchable, for as long as it took to do what she had to do. And what might have transpired once she reached the privacy of her own quarters, none had ever known.

But today, Palani was crying, not sobbing wildly, or keening, or moaning. Just crying; just allowing tears to brim in her eyes and roll down her face.

Fer'mia shuddered, as he waited for the new image to form.

There was a slight delay, and the Captain looked out into the forest, noting that new arrivals were still joining the ranks, but more slowly now. He spun back when he heard the hiss of a sharp inhalation from the Jedi Master.

There was absolutely no way of mistaking the image hovering before them, even though it was somewhat dim and blurred. The voice-over, however, was perfectly clear, and the feminine tone was smug, satisfied, almost purring. "As you can see, Master Qui-Gon," said the voice, "your lovely padawan has been a very busy boy. I know you'll forgive the poor quality of the images, but, after all, a woman is entitled to some small measure of privacy, is she not?" Her laugh was sultry, almost breathless.

Qui-Gon wanted not to see, but couldn't look away. The two figures in the vast, luxurious bed were obviously in the midst of extremely intense sexual intercourse, if the actions and inarticulate grunts emanating from them were an accurate indication. N'Vell Aji's face was visible, and instantly recognizable, and the Jedi Master was mildly surprised to note that she was not, after all, quite so glamorously beautiful as he remembered her; her exertions had caused her face to flush an unflattering, splotchy red, and her features appeared sharper and harsher than when she was younger.

But it was not Aji who held his attention; it was her companion, a companion whose face was only visible in fleeting glimpses, revealing only perhaps a quarter of the profile. But the hair was certainly visible, that fine, glowing spiked copper that somehow begged to be touched. And the body was partially visible as well, as sheets and coverlets flew or were tossed aside periodically. The skin was pale gold, and perfect, unblemished now, save for a few bruises still visible about the shoulders and waistline.

The voice was entirely generic, wordless, hoarse with passion, probably incapable of coherent speech.

The laughter grew louder. "He is quite tireless, your little padawan, and totally insatiable, and I'm afraid you're going to find him - assuming, of course, that you ever do find him - slightly the worse for wear. No longer the untried innocent." The laugh swelled again. "Oh, no. Innocent, no longer. Would you enjoy a description of all the ways he pleased me, Master Jinn? He has the most incredible mouth. But then, perhaps you already know that. Perhaps that explains how he knew exactly what to do, to please me. If so, I suppose I should thank you, for teaching him so well."

The laughter was colder now, like the frozen blade of a knife.

"Hold it," said Qui-Gon abruptly, stepping forward toward the holo-image. "Can we replay this?"

"Palani," said Fer'mia.

"Sure," came the answer, subdued but still alert.

"At half speed?" That was Qui-Gon again.

Muttering something about gluttons for punishment, Palani keyed up the transmission again, and they watched it proceed at a greatly reduced pace. 'Watched' was perhaps a slight exaggeration of what they actually did; they skimmed it with their eyes, seeing what they must, but avoiding what they could.

"There," said Qui-Gon abruptly. "Freeze it there."

Fer'mia looked at the image now stilled before them. Aji's eyes were visible over the boy's shoulder as he had twisted his back toward the holocam, thus sending the sheet that had covered him plunging to his waist. For just a second, his entire upper back had been visible, and was now frozen before them.

Qui-Gon reached out as if to touch that flawless expanse of skin - and laughed.

And from the open link to the Lady came a sound that was almost a growl. "What's so fucking funny?" demanded Palani.

Fer'mia was about to echo the question, when he saw the Jedi's eyes, and read a sense of relief within them so palpable that it was almost a physical manifestation.

"It's not him," breathed Qui-Gon, and the laughter in his face died beneath the lump forming in his throat. "It's not him."

"How do you know?"

He managed a grin. "She remembered everything else," he explained, "right down to the bruises. But she forgot one tiny detail."

"Such as?"

"The birthmark," he answered, smiling again. "Obi-Wan has a tiny little birthmark on his shoulder blade."

Fer'mia spun about to stare at the image still suspended before them. The look was very nearly perfect: coloring, size, physique, posture - everything. But the flesh across the broad shoulders was unmarked - flawless.

"Resume at normal speed, Palani," said the captain, knowing that his own grin probably looked just as fatuous as the one the Jedi wore. "Let's see what else the sneaky bitch has to say."

The action in the holo-image proceeded to its natural conclusion, and then everything grew soft and unfocused, until, suddenly, there was an abrupt shift in perspective, and the image became sharp and almost painfully clear.

And now, there was no mistaking the identity of the young man sprawled across the top of that self-same bed, and Qui-Gon was forced to acknowledge that, if he had not noticed the lack of the birthmark, he would have been completely convinced that the youth so eagerly engaged in sexual exploration with the Telosian princess had been his own padawan. Obi-Wan lay on his belly, his face turned toward the holocam, cradled against a wealth of silky pillows. He was nude, and quite fetching, perfect pale golden skin displayed to perfect advantage against plush, forest green satin. He was also - apparently - sound asleep.

N'Vell Aji reclined beside him, her fingers playing absently in his hair. "As you can see, Master Jinn," she said softly, stretching languidly and allowing her audience a glimpse of creamy breast and shadowed cleavage, "my sweet little pet has just exhausted himself. Do you know that he tastes like spiced cream, Qui-Gon?" Her smile grew lurid. "But that's a silly question, isn't it? Of course, you do. But I do hope you have a good memory for such things, for that taste is now forbidden to you - forever."

She sat up abruptly, dragging a jewel-toned shawl over her body, and stared directly into the holocam. "Now, let's be very clear, shall we? From this day forward, he's mine, and I intend to keep him, Qui-Gon. You can consider it an even swap, if you like. You took my brother; now you've provided a lover to warm my bed and pleasure my body. My very own, oh-so talented little love slave.

"But I know you entirely too well to believe that you're just going to accept this without a fight. So I've taken out a little insurance policy. A couple of them, actually. First of all, there's this." She reached over and picked up a small control device from the table beside the bed. Then she turned and looked at Obi-Wan, as if debating her next move. Finally, with a smug smile directed at the camera, she leaned over and traced her fingers down the length of his body, shoulder to thigh. "If he weren't so delicious in his sleep, I'd give you a demonstration, but I'm sure you recognize what this is. He's under my control, Master Qui-Gon, and only mine. This device is specific to my voice print, as is his implant. And, by the way, just in case you didn't know, the neural interphase of this little beauty works its way into the brain stem in a very short period of time, and becomes inseparable from the ganglia there. In fact, the explosive charge in this little darling is hardly even necessary. A random charge through the interphase, and his brain is fried. I'm sure you get the picture."

The hand was stroking again, and Qui-Gon fought down an urge to cringe on behalf of his precious apprentice.

"Then there's the other little surprise I had prepared for him, and for you. In our state-of-the-art genetics laboratory, Dr. Sirvik and I have done a great deal of work on designer viruses. I'm sure you've heard of them. So fine is our control over the creation of these organisms that we can now target specific genomes - races, clans, families. . . individuals. And we were very careful with the one we designed for Obi-Wan. No one else in the galaxy, indeed, no one else anywhere, would have responded to this organism." She paused, and triumph blazed in her eyes. "Obi-Wan, however, responded perfectly. He is now completely infected with this virus, Master Jinn, and there is no cure. There is, however, a treatment, which is sufficient to keep him alive. Would you care to venture a guess as to who controls the treatment?"

She stood, and there was nothing in her face now but ruthlessness. "So this is the ultimatum, Master Jinn. You will take your ridiculous allies, and leave this planet, and destroy the evidence which your colleague is even now transporting to Coruscant. At the same time, you will leave your apprentice to me. Or he will die." She smiled. "And he won't do so alone. We have been careful to leave ourselves a method with which we can destroy all traces of everything that's happened here on Drimula. We, of course, will be long gone, our profits long since funneled elsewhere, but Drimula will be devastated, and you will still be without your apprentice."

She turned to gaze down again on the youth sprawled across her bed. "You should remember, Qui-Gon, that I don't make idle threats. Like my brother, I always keep my word."

She turned again toward the holocam. "You have until this time tomorrow to comply. And don't be so foolish as to believe that I won't know your decision, almost as quickly as you do."

Her expression was suddenly sultry, as was her tone, and the smile she assumed was almost predatory. "I think I'll wake him up now. I grow. . . hungry."

The image flexed and was gone, and the silence at the verge of the forest was thick and heavy with foreboding.

"Rain," said Palani's voice, somewhat less tremulous than before. "Rakoo is having a fit to speak to you."

"Rakoo?" questioned Qui-Gon.

"Our Pholtchz healer," replied Fer'mia. "Put him through, Lani."

Understanding the speech of a Pholtchz was difficult at the best of times, but when said Pholtchz was almost beside himself with rampant emotion - emotion which, if Fer'mia was reading everything correctly, was composed of almost equal parts excitement, and pure rage - then it became an exercise in futility. In the end, it was Solitaire who stepped into the breach, and listened without comment to the healer's remarks, even managing not to step back from the comm unit when the Pholtchz resorted to shrill chittering that bordered on painful as it fell on the human eardrum.

Finally, the Weapons Master nodded and turned to face the captain and Qui-Gon. "Rakoo was analyzing the images as it played, and he claims that Obi-Wan isn't sleeping; he claims he's almost comatose."

"What?" demanded Qui-Gon. "How does he know that?"

"Well, you need to understand that translating Pholtchz is not an exact science," came the answer, "and I probably missed half of what he said. But the gist of it seemed to be that he analyzed the breathing pattern, the color and texture of Obi's skin, and the color of the shadows under his eyes and around his mouth, and what he refers to as Obi's bio-essence. He's pretty sure."

"The virus?" asked Qui-Gon miserably.

"Possibly, but he doesn't think so. Says it doesn't feel right."

The Jedi Master looked confused. "Feel right? Is that how he diagnoses problems - by how they feel?"

Arain Fer'mia leaned forward. "How is that so different from what you do, Jedi, or what your Jedi healers do? Besides, Rakoo has a" - he paused and allowed himself a small smile - "rather intimate knowledge of Obi-Wan's bio-essence. If I were you, I think I'd pay attention."

"If not the virus, then what?"

"The slave tag," replied Solitaire. "Rakoo thinks they tried it on him, and his brain just shorted out, for lack of a better term."

A massive, collective sighing from the edge of the forest claimed their attention, and they turned to watch the Drimulans begin to fade into the shadows. "It's time," said Elzair. "If we hesitate longer, we will lose the light entirely, and the journey to reach the cave's entrances is rife with hazard in the darkness."

Fer'mia nodded, and he and his people began to gather up their gear. Only Qui-Gon Jinn remained motionless.

"Are you coming?" asked the captain finally.

The Jedi drew a deep breath, and turned toward Solitaire. "Would you contact the _Lady Ghost_ once more, please. I need to send a message."

"We don't have time for reports to your Jedi committee," said Fer'mia, obviously annoyed.

Jinn smiled. "Nor do I intend to send one," he answered cryptically.

It was a matter of moments before Palani Vau-Bremayne appeared before them again, and, on learning what the Jedi wanted, looked to Fer'mia for his approval, which was given, albeit not without a certain reluctance.

"I want you to contact the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, but not the Council. Understood?"

Vau-Bremayne looked skeptical. "I assume that just anybody won't do," she said sharply. "Who am I looking for?"

"Ask for the healers' wing. Master Healer Mirilent Soljan."

"And?"

"Tell her that I told you to call her, and tell her that Obi-Wan is in deep trouble, and needs her here as fast as she can get here."

Palani looked as if she doubted his sanity; Jedi healers were notoriously reluctant to travel away from the Temple, but he knew she would make the call.

While Qui-Gon gathered up the remainder of their gear, Fer'mia studied the Jedi's visage out of the corner of his eye. "Is this healer any good?" he asked finally.

Qui-Gon chuckled. "She's extraordinary, under any circumstances. But for Obi-Wan? She's a walking miracle."

"How so?"

The Jedi's eyes were soft and unfocused. "I'm not really sure," he replied. "She's the most ill-tempered, foul-mouthed, doggedly persistent, opinionated, rough-edged, uncouth individual you'll ever meet, but she's also his own personal, perfect, overwhelmingly capable guardian angel, who would fight death with a whip and a chair to keep him safe."

"She loves him."

Qui-Gon grinned. "And has ever since he won her heart when he was but a wee tyke."

Fer'mia adjusted his pack once more, before moving to take the lead among their little group. Drimula was his home, and he would command here, until it was time to defer to the Jedi for the rescue attempt. For the captain had finally come to accept that, whatever mistakes he might have made, the Master had only one concern now.

Obi-Wan would not live out the rest of his life in slavery to that dreadful woman. It was the first time that Fer'mia had grasped what the Jedi had tried to tell him. There really were some things that were worse that death.

If it came to that, if the choice were to live in such abject horror or to die free, Fer'mia thought he would even be able to perform the final kindness himself.

But he desperately hoped there was some other way.

When he thought of the boy as he had first come to them, the pain in his eyes vying with the nobility of what he was, hungry for validation of his worth, eager to give of himself, and asking nothing in return but acceptance, Fer'mia felt something flex within himself; something that he had long since consigned to the dusty vaults of discarded memory.

He had had a brother once, many long years past. A brother who was not as strong or as resilient as the other male members of his family; a brother who had been an artist - a sculptor of beautiful, ethereal flights of fancy from metal and glass, creations of such delicate splendor that they had inspired sweet music in Arain's heart as he wondered at their beauty.

But Drimula had had no need for beauty, and Ambrere had been among the first casualties of the mines, dead of the acrid fumes and buried in an unmarked mass grave while Arain was off looking for able-bodied men to assist in their fight; dead alone, with no one at his side, and no one even knowing he was gone until he failed to return from his month-long tour in the mines.

Arain had never found the grave, and never taken the time to mourn his brother. It seemed a selfish thing to do when so many others were even more grieved and stricken.

He walked steadily forward, with the Jedi Master at his side, and saw the image of Obi-Wan's face before him. "Hold on, Little Brother," he murmured under his breath. "Whatever happens, happens to us all. I promise you, you will not die alone."

Qui-Gon could not quite decipher the words, even with Jedi enhancement, but he easily discerned the meaning beneath them.

They quickened their pace, as the sun began its long dive into evening.

******************** ************************  
tbc


	33. The Humble and Contrite Heart

Chapter 33: The Humble and Contrite Heart

_The tumult and the shouting dies,_   
_The Captains and the Kings depart,_   
_Still stands thine ancient sacrifice,_   
_An humble and a contrite heart._

\--- _Recessional_ \--- Rudyard Kipling

 

The world bled into his consciousness only very slowly, like watercolor trailed from a tentative brushstroke. Sound came first, but in fits and starts; here and gone and back again, soft, irregular, soothing somehow - steady breathing, a swish like silk on silk, the pale hum of an electrical field, the susurration of air currents through a ventilation system, unhurried footsteps, and - somewhere - the murmur of distant voices; even quiet, sporadic laughter.

Tactile sensation was next, again very, very slowly; warmth, initially pleasant, like snuggling under a fluffy comforter or lying in a pool of spring sunlight; the texture of downy fabric beneath his skin and swaddling him gently, like a child tucked safely in its crib; the stir of air across his back, cool, but not unpleasantly so; and, finally, the firm stroke of large hands along the long axis of the muscles of his thighs and calves, firm, insistent, but still very gentle.

Vision came last, beginning with nothing more than pale amber and jade splashes against the darkness of his closed eyelids, flickers of color which urged him to rise and take a look at the world around him, but he didn't think so. He was more than content where he was, where he didn't have to see things he didn't want to see, or remember things best left lost in the mists that still fogged his mind.

"Obi-Wan." The voice was a basso rumble, even at a volume that was little more than a whisper. "Can you hear me, Obi?"

"No." The less said, he thought, the better, if he wanted to continue sleeping. And he did, he decided, want to continue sleeping.

In the beat of silence that followed, he actually thought he might have gotten away with it. "Sorry, Obi, but you gotta wake up. At least enough to listen to me. Come on now."

"Am I dead?" the young Jedi muttered, figuring that the monumental pounding rising now in the base of his skull could only be the residual effect of a fatal blow.

"No. You'll be fine."

With a sigh, Obi-Wan opened his eyes to mere slits, and would have shrieked at the piercing agony in his head when brilliant sunlight assaulted his senses, except that he figured the shrieking would hurt more than the light.

Instead, he slammed his eyes shut and tried to throw up mental shielding against the torment, but of course, there were no shields to be found. He was still confused, but memory was beginning to bleed through the fog, and he touched the metal ring around his throat with one groping hand, and instantly experienced the queasy empty sensation that the Force inhibitor produced in his consciousness.

"You okay?" The basso voice was trying very hard to maintain a sibilant whisper, as if its owner knew anything louder might prove lethal.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"On whether or not somebody actually bashed my skull in, or it only feels that way."

"Looks unbashed to me." There was only the barest hint of a smile in the voice.

Once more, he opened one eye to a mere slit. "Jebbitz," he said suddenly, "is that you?"

"In the flesh."

The eye, opening a bit more, explored his surroundings to the limit of its orbit. "How'd you get in here, and where _is_ here, anyway?"

"I think you'd call this your gilded cage, Obi, and I got in because they think I'm just a dumb old Drim with big, strong hands, and the lady thought you needed somebody strong to rub some life back into your limbs."

With a groan, the young Jedi heaved himself up to a sitting position, and was instantly grateful for the massive arms that caught him as he would have toppled forward onto the unforgiving surface of a marble floor.

"Shit!" he muttered. "What the Force is wrong with me?"

"They turned off that thing in your head," came the answer, as sausage-like fingers tried to calm and soothe, a task for which their blunt roughness seemed singularly unsuited. Yet, somehow, the very awkwardness was comforting.

"The slave tag? Why?"

"Cause it didn't work on you. It just dropped you like a lasered lizard."

A wave of nausea, compounded with dizziness, swept over him, toes to crown, and he wavered again.

"You awake enough to listen, and remember what I say?" Jebbitz was peering at him with obvious concern, and finding it more and more difficult to keep his voice pitched low enough to avoid pick-up by directional microphones.

Obi-Wan just let his head fall forward until it was resting against the massive chest of the gentle giant. "I'm awake," he managed to groan.

The huge Corellian couldn't quite resist a grin. "Oh, Li'l Obi," he whispered, "if they could only see us now. Half the crew would want to kill me, and the other half would give their right nut to be here like this, with you."

"Thought you reformed," mumbled the young Jedi, wondering vaguely if he should be more alarmed than he was, but giving it all up as being just entirely too much trouble.

Jebbitz chuckled softly, now rubbing broad circles against the sweep of pale golden skin of the boy's back. "Just for you, Obi. Anybody else is still fair game."

Obi-Wan found enough awareness within himself to smile, and pat the giant on the shoulder, and observe, somewhere deep within his drifting consciousness, that anything that felt this much like pure bliss was well worth the effort, no matter what it might precede.

One brief strobing flare of crimson concern insisted that he would feel differently if the hulking creature so obviously hungering after his shapely little ass was not the self-same hulking creature sworn so solemnly to protect it.

"Ready to listen?" asked the Corellian, dropping the extremely relaxed youth back onto his stomach across the rumpled bed, and working the muscles of the upper back now with deep, almost painful strokes.

"Whatever." It wasn't the most reassuring remark, but Jebbitz decided - correctly - that it was all the boy was capable of, given his boneless state.

"They're coming for you, tonight. Cap'n Rain, and that Jedi, and a whole bunch of other people. The Jedi wants to know if you know what that stuff was that they shot into your body."

Obi-Wan lay very still for a moment, thinking - reluctantly. "Yes, I know what it was, but there's nothing we can do about that now."

"OK, Kid. Don't tense up. Everything's going to be all right. He said to make sure you find out everything you can about it, including how and where the treatment is made."

For just a fraction of a second, Jebbitz noted that the young body beneath his hands stiffened slightly, before being stricken with a brief but severe tremor.

"When?" asked the boy.

"Midnight tonight. They're setting up some diversions, and the schedule is kinda tight, but they'll manage it. You'll see."

The young Jedi took a deep breath, and swung himself up to a sitting position, to regard the big Corellian with luminous eyes. "Jeb," he said softly, letting his head fall forward to be sure his words were muffled, "will you promise me something?"

"Sure, if I can."

"I need your solemn promise," insisted Obi-Wan, though still in a whisper.

"OK, Obi. If it means that much to you."

There was not a scintilla of fear or uncertainty in the brightness of blue-green eyes, calm as a pool of sunlit water, when the Jedi once more met the Corellian's gaze. "I can't become a pawn in that woman's hands, Jeb. I can't let myself be used as a weapon. Do you understand me? That's what she'll do, if she gets the chance. She'll use me to destroy the Jedi, and anybody else who gets in her way."

Jebbitz suddenly found himself unable to swallow the very large lump in his throat. "So what are you saying?"

"I want you to promise me you won't let that happen."

"You don't need to worry about that, Obi. We're going to get you out of here."

"Yeah," replied the Jedi, "but if you don't . . ."

"We will." There was an almost petulant quality to the insistence now.

Obi-Wan sighed. "But if you don't."

The huge Corellian suddenly couldn't stand to be sitting still in this awful place, not for another minute, and he rose abruptly, backing away from what he could not confront. He had to get out, had to . . .

"Promise me," repeated Obi-Wan. "I need that promise."

Jeb was breathing heavily. "Your Master. He's the one who should . . ."

Obi-Wan nodded. "I know, but I don't know if he can. It's a terrible thing to ask of someone who loves you. And I am sorry, Jeb, to lay this off on you. But I need this."

The youth struggled to his feet, and was grateful to find that the dizziness had subsided, somewhat. He moved forward slowly, and then stood looking up at the man assigned to protect him. "Please," he said, still whispering. "Given enough time and motivation, any man can be broken. I need to know you'll save me from that, if there's no other way."

The Corellian looked down at the young man, and wondered how anyone so young, and so untouched by the dark facets of human existence, could face such horror without flinching. And wondered, as well, how the Jedi justified risking such innocence in the discharge of their duties around the galaxy. Weren't there enough mature, seasoned knights to answer the needs of the Republic? Why would they risk children? Finally, reluctantly, he ducked his head and laid a massive palm against Obi-Wan's shoulder. "All right, Obi. I promise. No one is ever going to get the chance to break you."

Weaker than he had realized, the Jedi slumped, and Jebbitz scooped him up and laid him back on the bed.

The entire conversation had taken only a few minutes, and had been conducted in covert murmurs and whispers, with wary eyes mindful of surveillance cameras, and Obi-Wan, it seemed, was completely sanguine with the result.

The same could not be said for his visitor, however. Although Jebbitz was careful to maintain a calm demeanor before the cameras, turmoil raged within him. He had, in effect, just promised this lovely, charming young rogue that he would end his life with his own hands, rather than allow him to be kept and broken by this witchwoman.

The young Jedi was asleep again, as the Corellian withdrew from the heavily shielded chamber. It was as if extracting the promise from Jebbitz had eased Obi-Wan's mind sufficiently to let him rest again.

The gentle giant sighed, and supposed that it was a good thing that one of them, at least, was serene enough to sleep. For his part, he wondered if, after the evil that this day might bring, he would ever sleep peacefully again.

******************** *************** ******************

Obi-Wan's next awakening was less delicate, as the soft linens that cradled him were stripped away, without warning.

He woke instantly, but avoided opening his eyes as he found that the headache that had almost incapacitated him earlier, had faded to a dull throbbing at the base of his skull.

"I know you're awake," said that sultry, infinitely annoying voice. "So open your eyes and look at me."

N'Vell stood looking down at him, wearing her characteristic smug smile. "How do you feel?"

He sighed, and heaved himself up to lean against the pile of silken pillows at the head of the bed, raising his eyes to regard her with Jedi serenity. "What," he said softly, "do you care?"

She chuckled. "You're right. I don't, except as a monitor of your overall condition. Believe it or not, my Jedi, I don't want you to die."

"Oh, I believe it. That would spoil all your fun, wouldn't it?"

She shrugged. "Well, maybe not quite all of it. The look on Jinn's face, at the moment he realized you were dead, would probably be priceless. But while you live, we can explore so many other interesting possibilities." 

She settled on the edge of the bed, and leaned forward, one arm braced on each side of his torso. "Tell me, my own, is there anything you desire?"

"Can I have some clothes?" he asked dryly and had the pleasure of seeing an ugly flush rise from her throat.

"Pleasure slaves," she replied coldly, "do not wear clothes, unless their masters take them out in public and, sometimes, not even then."

His gaze was steady as determination flared in his eyes. "You may keep me here forever," he said softly, "and you may force me to do whatever you wish, but you will never make me a slave. I am Jedi, and I'll die that way. No matter what you do."

Violently, she clenched both hands behind his neck and jerked him forward until his forehead was pressed against her own. "Jedi, are you?" she taunted. "Last I heard, they threw you out. Your precious Master was quick enough to toss your luscious little body aside when he found someone more interesting, wasn't he?"

He refused to flinch, either from her words or from the venomous hatred in her eyes. "None of that," he replied calmly, "changes what I am."

For a moment, she simply stared into his face, frozen in contemplation. Then, she darted forward and kissed him, almost gently, before pushing him back against the pillows piled behind him. "Are you hungry?"

He almost said no, when he realized that he was, indeed, hungry, and that he would probably need all the strength he could manage to build up, to deal with the events of the day.

If he had hoped to be allowed to eat in peace, however, he was doomed to disappointment, as N'Vell lifted a lazy hand, to summon a servant who was carrying a tray laden with an assortment of covered dishes.

Obi-Wan rearranged himself against the pillows, surreptitiously pulling a sheet across his nakedness, but N'Vell merely smiled and pulled it away from him. In the end, he elected to wrap himself in whatever remained of his dignity, which, he thought, probably wasn't much, and concentrate on his food. What he could not know was that the image he projected spoke volumes about the man he was, even through the lens of a security holo-cam. 

Maleonaka Sirvik, somehow, found himself drawn to that image. He did not linger in the security command center for long, but the image seemed to linger in his mind, following him as he went in search of a place in which he might find a bit of solitude. The scientist, though a victim of his own decadent appetites, tended to be of a contemplative nature, requiring a great deal of privacy for the pursuit of what he termed, 'pleasures of the mind'.

He was intrigued by the young Jedi, and he had no idea why. It wasn't, after all, as if he'd never seen Obi-Wan Kenobi before; N'Vell had accumulated hundreds of holo-images of the boy over the years, and taken great pleasure in displaying them for Sirvik's comments and as an accompaniment to her own endless soliloquy of the multiplicity of ways in which she would inflict pain and suffering on the child. 

Of course, he was no longer a child, and maybe that was what made the difference. Or maybe it was something as simple as the fact that flesh and blood could reach out and grab one viscerally, when photons could only pique the curiosity.

Without conscious thought, the scientist's steps led him to the privacy of his own quarters, and he stepped inside gratefully, eager to retreat from the conflict that seemed to have gripped him, of late. The suite that had been assigned to him was luxurious in the extreme, but subdued, as he preferred. There were no harsh lights, no glaring colors, no screaming artwork to claim the eye. Awash in pale greens and soft lavenders, all muted and grayed, and protected from the harshness of sunlight by voluminous layers of semi-sheer draperies, the rooms suited him admirably.

On a table near a window alcove sat a bretzian crystal construct - only just begun - and Sirvik almost rubbed his palms together in gleeful anticipation. He did not think his dear friend Nurl'qera, director of the Drathia 3 science station, would be available for several hours yet, so he had plenty of time to consider his next move in the painstaking game. Should he move vertically? It would be a bold, unexpected ploy, but there were always great risks in disregarding intersecting tangents. Perhaps he should . . .

He paused, just as he moved to settle into the comfortable armchair to consider his strategy, and turned to gaze at a small, nondescript satchel that sat beside a cairelwood cabinet carved with mythological serpent/warriors. Chiding himself for his own foolishness, he moved forward and picked up the bag, and opened a tiny, semi-concealed side pocket.

The slender paristeel tube was exactly where he knew it would be - pristine, unbroken, available - should he ever decide to avail himself - or anyone else - of it. Its contents reflected the room's pale light with a rich, ruby gleam.

He nodded, and started to reclose the pocket - and stopped. He would never know, he supposed, why he felt compelled to do what he did, but compelled, he was, no matter the cause. He discarded the satchel, as the tiny tube disappeared into a concealed pocket in his jacket.

He then turned back to his game, his degree of anticipation ratcheting up another notch. This time, he would defeat Nurl'gera; he knew it, somehow, and, at the rate they were progressing, it would only take another year or so.

He grinned. This would be his first victory over his old companion, and he intended to enjoy it, even gloat a bit, perhaps.

When he lowered himself into the chair, he was immediately lost in the complexity of the crystal structure before him, visualizing the flow of random energy elements as they constantly re-invented the matrix of the formation. Nurl'gera was in for a huge surprise.

***************** ****************** ***********************

Obi-Wan did not react well to being fed like a pet catling, but his discomfiture was wasted on N'Vell Aji, who frankly was totally disinterested in whether he was pleased or not. She wanted to feed him, and, if he wanted to eat, he had no other choice.

Unfortunately, the methods she used resulted in a great deal more tactile contact than he would have preferred, as he was forbidden to use his hands to make things easier. Thus, when she popped a sweet/tart, succulent Embryai plooma in his mouth, the intensely-flavored juice spurted everywhere as he bit down, and ran provocatively down his chin. N'Vell, of course, was there immediately to lick it away.

The third time it happened, Obi-Wan simply could not avoid rolling his eyes, and N'Vell slapped him - hard.

"You will learn your place, my Jedi," she snapped, "and your place is obedience."

"I'm not hungry," he said, allowing a hint of petulance to thread through his tone.

"I don't care," she replied, completely unperturbed, selecting a fat, cream-drenched prawlet from a heated plate. "You eat when I say you eat; and you stop when I say you stop. And right now, you eat."

The prawlet, like everything else she had fed to him, was delicious and perfectly spiced, and he thought he detected a trace of brandy in the creamy sauce. It was, perhaps, a trifle too rich for his personal taste, but Qui-Gon, he thought, would have adored it.

Maybe he would prepare it for his Master one day, assuming, of course, that he lived beyond this one.

One more bite, of a crunchy, nutlike morsel that was a little more peppered than he normally liked, and the princess of Telos had apparently made her point. She wiped her hands, and then leaned forward, her face poised above him as she used a moistened napkin to dab his lips.

"You know, my Jedi," she almost purred, "things would be much more pleasant for all of us, if you would just accept the inevitable. You belong to me now, and there's nothing to be done about it, if you want to stay alive." She kissed him then, hungrily, but with less brutality than she normally exhibited.

"Do you find me so unattractive," she asked, very softly, "that you can't respond?"

He closed his eyes and fought to find his composure. "You're very beautiful," he acknowledged, grudgingly. "But it's difficult to feel passion for someone who's just poisoned you."

She laughed. "But it's a very gentle poison, Obi-Wan, compared to what I could have used. You'll feel almost nothing as long as you're close enough to me to get the injections you need."

"It's a leash," he snapped.

"Yes, it is," she agreed, suddenly cold. "And I think maybe you need a demonstration of just how strong that leash is. Maybe then, you'll be a bit more receptive."

"I can't just . . ."

"Yes," she retorted coldly, "you can. And you will. I may not be able to use the mind control implant on you, but there are other ways, my Jedi. You're due for your next injection very shortly, but I think we'll just . . . delay it for a bit, so that you get a taste of what the infection will be like, if I ever decide to dispense with your services. And to make sure you get the full effect, I think we'll also unseal these quarters until the demonstration is completed. And I can promise you, Love, that it won't be pleasant. Mali was very thorough and very painstaking with the design."

She held his head still with both her hands, and buried her face in the soft flesh beneath his jawline, sucking hard to draw blood to the surface, and laughing as she felt him attempt to squirm away from her.

When she pulled back, her eyes were almost black with desire. "And after our little demonstration, my Jedi, you will do as I say, or someone will die. Not you, of course. Just . . . someone; it doesn't matter who. So don't bother telling me that you 'can't'; for the sake of some poor, pathetic soul somewhere out there in the complex, now busy with its pathetic little job, and having no idea that its life now hangs in the balance, you'd better."

"Subtlety," said an amused voice from the doorway, "is not exactly your strong suit, my dear."

N'Vell looked up, and regarded Brath Ozvey with a frown. "Subtlety is only required when one is in a position of weakness. That's hardly the case here."

The general moved forward, his eyes raking over Obi-Wan's nudity. "You plan to keep him like that?"

She trailed chilly fingers down the young Jedi's chest. "It adds to the ambiance, don't you think?"

Ozvey smiled. "He definitely does look the part. I've seen high-priced courtesans that pale by comparison."

Something in his voice caused the Telosian princess to stare at him sharply, and Obi-Wan to snicker softly.

"What's so funny, Little Ben?" asked the General.

Obi-Wan managed a look that might have passed for sultry, if he'd been able to keep the laughter out of his eyes. "Just tell her you don't like boys."

Ozvey's eyes widened, and registered shock, until he started to laugh. "Why, you outrageous little bastard," he managed between chortles, "breaking you is going to be . . . orgasmic!"

The young Jedi's eyes grew speculative, as he watched his captors exchange glances.

Then N'Vell smiled broadly, leaning toward him once more. "You see, my Jedi," she said smoothly, running greedy fingers down his torso, "I only want your body - mostly - but there are other markets for your soul."

***************** ********************** *****************

Thick forest had once surrounded the hill on which the city sat, but the Army had cleared most of it away, in order to safeguard the approaches to its most secure base. Now multi-layered force fields, combined with natural rock formations that fell in a series of deep narrow steps toward the valley, provided more than adequate protection against intruders. A series of guard towers, complete with wide-angle disruptor cannon, rising some ten meters above the edge of the terraced city, completed the defensive perimeter. Yet, all was camouflaged to avoid ruining the aesthetic appearance of the city; the powerful inhabitants wished to live with impenetrable security, but wished not to be reminded of it wherever they looked. 

Thus it was that land cleared of once-lush forest was lovingly cultivated and planted with decorative ornamental and flowering shrubs, interspersed with stone-lined pools and informal paths; defensive walls were alive with rich, climbing foliage, and even the utilitarian towers trailed thick drifts of flowering vines, intermixed with gray/green liamella foliage that seemed to flourish and grow on every available surface.

As dusk deepened and reached for darkness, there came a curious, hushed period of time - a stretch of stillness - shielded from the last traces of sunlight by the curve of the horizon, and not yet illuminated by the banks of perimeter lights that circled the compound.

Behind the city, where more and higher foothills marched away to the north, in pursuit of the towering, snow-capped peaks just visible against the sweep of night, the soil was composed of a pale loam, not unlike sand, and something that might have been a form of leached out ash. The resulting composite was a pale, colorless amalgam, that made features indistinct if viewed from more than a few meters away. 

In the midst of that undefined pallor, deep in a recess beneath a monolithic pile of gerumite slabs, heavily veined with quartzel, there was a tall, narrow aperture, completely concealed beneath a thicket of the ubiquitous liamella.

In the haze of twilight, dressed in jumpsuits the color of ashes, which virtually disappeared against the grayness of the soil, eight figures detached themselves from the shadows of a small shallow ravine, and raced forward, the last one barely completing the mad dash before the brilliant glare of the perimeter lighting sprang into being. The vertical slit in the rock wall was exceedingly narrow, so narrow, in fact, that one of the new arrivals was forced to expend considerable effort in body control, not to mention several excruciating minutes, to squeeze his way past the constrained opening.

Arain Fer'mia was practically bouncing with impatience as Master Jinn finally managed to free himself from the aperture's grasp, after being forced to remove everything previously affixed to his person, in order to work his way free.

"Maybe you should consider going on a diet," grumbled the Ghost.

Qui-Gon drew himself up to his full, normally impressive height. "I have large bones," he announced solemnly.

"Yeah. Most of 'em in your head," murmured Fer'mia, but it was said mostly under his breath.

Still, the Jedi Master looked at him with ill-concealed distaste. "Are we sure that your instructions will be carried out, to the letter?"

"My people know their jobs, Jedi, and they're quick learners. This little ploy comes directly from your padawan's bag of tricks, and it ought to work like a charm. In addition, they know that Obi-Wan's life is on the line, here. Believe it or not, that probably means more to us, than it does to you, so you can stop worrying about it. Since they know what's at stake, they'll be on time, no matter what kind of effort it took to get everything in place."

Qui-Gon was rearranging the packs he had removed in order to squeeze through the cavern opening. "Not possible," he said softly.

"What's not possible?" demanded the Drimulan, almost to the point of just shooting the big Jedi and handling the rescue himself.

The Master's eyes were suddenly brilliant in the flare of a handlight. "That his life could mean more to you than to me. That's simply not possible."

Two of the Drimulan natives, the two who had guided them to this place, motioned for them to follow, and disappeared into a shaft that proceeded from the base where they were, upwards at a forty-degree angle.

Fer'mia preceded Jinn into the passage and called back over his shoulder. "But you're willing to let him die, under certain circumstances. We're not."

Qui-Gon sighed. "This discussion is pointless, Captain. You obviously have no concept of what it is to be Jedi, and I obviously have no time to explain it. However, I can assure you of one thing. What you understand or don't understand is immaterial. What counts is what Obi-Wan understands."

But Fer'mia wasn't prepared to give up this particular bone of contention. "I just don't get it. You say you love him, but you're prepared to sacrifice him. It doesn't make sense."

Qui-Gon was silent for a while, silent for so long that Fer'mia thought the Jedi had finally just decided that he was wasting his breath in trying to respond.

But the big Jedi did answer eventually, and there was a curious softness in his tone that Fer'mia found oddly disquieting. "Your cousin was a very courageous woman, Captain Fer'mia. I assume that you were close, when you were young."

"Very." This was a discussion he absolutely did not want to have. Not now anyway.

"Forgive me," said Qui-Gon. "I know this is difficult for you to contemplate. But suppose, if you will, that General Ozvey had approached you with a deal, and had used her life as a bargaining chip. Suppose he had offered to free her - and her child - and all you had to do was walk away. Leave Drimula in the hands of the consortium, forget the Resistance, and walk away. Could you have done that?"

"No." He had no words to elaborate further.

Qui-Gon nodded. "Of course, you wouldn't. But, let's just say, for the sake of argument, that you had. How do you suppose your cousin would have reacted?"

Fer'mia closed his eyes against new, fresh pain rising within him. "She'd have hated me, and herself."

The Jedi nodded. "Exactly. Just as Obi-Wan would hate us, and himself, if we expend innocent lives in seeking to save his."

"But there's more at stake here than his life," argued the captain. "Much more. If we can't disable that warhead. . ."

"Yes, Captain. I understand that, and so will he. But if it comes down to a choice . . ."

Fer'mia stopped abruptly and turned back to face the Jedi Master. "If it comes down to a choice?"

Qui-Gon heaved a deep breath. "Then there is no choice."

Ahead of them, the passage narrowed and plunged downward, and the Drimulan guides raised cautionary hands. One of them indicated that they must move with great stealth at this point, and they acknowledged with nods. They had been warned that there were places in the caverns where sound traveled with extraordinary clarity due to the existences of interconnecting wind channels in the porous stone layers above them; apparently, they were entering such a section now.

They moved silently and with exaggerated caution, as the footing beneath them grew more precarious with every step. Premature discovery of their presence or a careless injury to any of their party, they could ill afford.

At Qui-Gon's heels, Solitaire moved with an ease and grace that almost defied gravity and the laws of bio-physics, but the Weapons Master's fine muscle control and superb conditioning were hardly challenged by navigating this rough corridor, so far. 

She had listened to the conversation between her captain and the Jedi, and had kept her remarks to herself. She understood what the Master had said; she really did. And she knew that he spoke truly; Obi-Wan would not thank anyone for saving his life at the expense of others.

But she also knew something else; something that definitely wasn't Jedi, wasn't politically correct, wasn't proper Republican doctrine - but was entirely human.

Some lives mattered more than others; some people were more worth saving. 

And she knew one thing more: Obi-Wan Kenobi should not die today, but, if he did, he would not die alone.

And, as she exchanged quick glances with his Master, she rather thought she was not the only person who had made that commitment.

************** ******************* *********************

It had started with little more than a twitch in his gut and a somewhat unpleasant sensation of heat radiating from his body.

That had been only a matter of minutes ago, and the part of him that was still capable of rational thought, which was a very small part, indeed, was tacitly astonished at the speed with which his condition had deteriorated.

He knew he was being watched, probably by multiple observers, and had hoped to conduct himself with a measure of decorum.

Well - screw that, because there was no possible decorum, when you were convinced that your intestines were, sooner rather than later, going to come rushing up through your throat, just as soon as they stopped convulsing in your abdomen. In addition, he was broiling, as his internal temperature leapt ever higher, and every breath he drew felt like flame licking at his tortured lungs. Beyond that, the pounding agony at the base of his skull grew rapidly stronger, until he was sure his eyes would explode from his head at any moment, just to ease the pressure behind them.

He lay on the twisted sheets of his bed, writhing in torment, and was suddenly seized with an excruciating, grinding torture in his spine that felt as if he were being twisted like a pretzel.

Until that moment, he had managed not to scream, but there was no holding it back any longer, as his back arched and seized again.

Vaguely, he became aware of a litany of voices, sharp and bright and frightened, maybe, but he lost them as a hand reached forward and grabbed his chin. The pain engendered by that simple touch was almost enough to send him forever into the grasp of madness.

"Now, my Jedi," said a voice, much too loud, much too shrill, another source of stabbing pain, "are you ready for your treatment?"

He would have answered, if he could. He would have begged, if he could. Hell, he would have fucked her into next week, if he could. If only she would put an end to this. If only . . .

"N'Vell," came a stern voice, also much too loud, "that's enough. If you persist, it'll be too late. We either treat him now, or the damage is too great, and he's a dead man."

Obi-Wan ultimately did not hear her response for he fell into unconsciousness, with enormous gratitude, maintaining sufficient rationality to note that he would gladly have died at that moment, to avoid the continuing agony.

She was sitting beside him, bathing his face with a cold compress when he regained consciousness, and he wondered if she really expected him to buy into her 'angel of mercy' act.

But, no. She reverted to form almost immediately, leaning forward to grasp his face with cold hands. "Remember it, my Jedi. And imagine what it would be like. You only went through an hour of it, and Mali tells me it would take a full day for you to die. Imagine it, and be ready when I ask again for your favors."

He swallowed, or tried to anyway, and found his mouth dryer than the wastelands of Tatooine.

She dribbled delightfully chilled water into his mouth, before covering his lips with her own. Her touch was light; she merely pressed her lips against his - gently - and waited.

He managed, barely, not to moan, as he suppressed a sigh and kissed her. It wasn't a very impressive kiss, he thought, for he was weaker than a newborn catling cub, but it seemed to satisfy her, nevertheless. For the moment. She sat back and favored him with a smile.

"Very good, my Jedi. You see? You can be agreeable, when you choose. So listen carefully, for this is important. To you - and to some unlucky slob out there somewhere. Tomorrow, I will come to you, and you will be ready for me. You will be bathed in scented oils; you will be radiant with happiness to see me. And you will be ready to make love to me as I wish, for as long as I wish, in any way I wish. Do you understand me?"

He didn't even try to formulate a response. He simply nodded.

Her smile struck terror into his heart, and Obi-Wan began to consider, seriously, how he could possibly put an end to this horror. He was suddenly unsure that he could expect any external help, and he realized that everything might ultimately depend on his own ability to save himself. He sighed softly, allowed himself to feel a moment of regret for all that might have been, and began to consider the means for achieving his own death.

The darkness seemed to surround him, and he wanted to believe that Light always vanquished Darkness; he had always believed it before, but he had never before confronted evil on such a scale. Not even Xanatos had been so relentlessly malevolent.

N'Vell stared at him for a moment, as if she might have picked up on some scrap of his thoughts. Then she smiled again, and it was everything he could do not to cringe away from her infernal joy.

He had finally seen the genuine difference between N'Vell Aji and her brother; Xanatos, for all his malice, had been sane. His sister was not.

***************** ****************** ***************

It was, in the end, a near thing, thought Arain Fer'mia. One step nearer the edge of an abyss that no one had previously noted, and one more second of that soul-curdling shriek that had torn through the subterranean passage, and they'd have been permanently without the services of one massive Jedi Master.

That it had been Obi-Wan doing the shrieking, no one had any doubt at all; that his pain must have been beyond imagining, was immediately understood; but that the psychic shock to his Jedi Master was so nearly lethal came as a huge surprise to them all.

Qui-Gon Jinn, who probably had never broken down and cried in public in his entire life, fell to his knees and sobbed like a broken-hearted toddler, as the anguished cry of his padawan echoed and re-echoed through the cavern's passages.

It was Solitaire who managed to bring him back. "You can't help him if you fold on us now," her mechanized voice allowed no emotion to bleed through.

"You don't understand," he replied, trying to catch his breath. "You can't understand. They've taken the Force from him, so he has no way to defend against this. But I know my Obi-Wan. To allow himself to react like that, he must be in agony."

The Weapons Master sat back on her heels and regarded the Jedi through the lenses of her mask. But even without seeing her eyes, he read the emotions sheeting off her like rain.

"And it's all your fault," she said. "Isn't it?"

He could only nod.

"So you planning to just sit there, and let it go on?"

He drew a deep, ragged breath - and struggled to his feet. "No. No, we must reach him." 

She nodded, then paused for a few seconds, apparently debating the wisdom of saying more. But, in the end, she thought he had a right to know.

"He asked Jeb not to give them a chance to break him," she said slowly.

The Jedi Master closed his eyes, fighting to regain his serenity, fighting to resist the grip of despondency.

"That," he said, finding a calmness within himself that he hadn't realized he still had, "is my job."

She nodded. "That's what Jeb thought, but Obi wasn't sure you could do it."

Qui-Gon shivered slightly. "If it must be done, I will do it. It would be my final gift to him."

Arain Fer'mia stepped forward slowly and looked up into Jinn's face. "And what would it do to you, to have to do it?"

The Master turned to peer into the darkness ahead of them as they resumed their journey. "What it would do to me," he said softly, "doesn't matter. All that matters is that it saves him."

"You really do love him," said Fer'mia, somewhat amazed to discover that he had come to believe it himself, "don't you?"

"More than my life," came the response, echoing slightly, lingering in the stillness behind the figure of the Jedi Master. Qui-Gon had moved on, and had no more time to continue the discussion.

His padawan lay ahead of him, suffering - waiting. To live or to die had not yet been determined, but, either way, it would almost certainly be at his Master's hands.

******************** ****************** ****************

It was really strange, thought Obi-Wan as he stared at the luminous numerals of the chronometer affixed to the medical monitor at his bedside. He had been on more worlds than he could even begin to count; had explored cultures beyond reckoning and observed civilizations of every conceivable configuration, and almost every one of them shared one particular concept. Midnight - the witching hour.

Oh, they didn't all call it that, of course. Witchcraft was a concept completely alien to many worlds, but there was almost always some kind of analog - some cult or mystical discipline or metaphysical practice - something. And virtually all regarded that moment between the death of one day and the birth of the next to be imbued with some kind of unexplainable power.

Obi-Wan didn't care much what kind of 'explanation' his colleagues might have arranged for the events that would ensue from the magic moment; he just wanted it to happen now.

There were yet four minutes to go.

His eyes still stung from his earlier bout of illness, and he knew that he should have slept, when the opportunity had arisen. And he had been ridiculously grateful when allowed to eat a simple late supper, and avail himself of a hot shower, complete with water massage, before crawling between freshly-changed cool linen sheets, all without interruption or external interference, though he wasn't naïve enough to believe that he had really been granted any modicum of privacy. Security personnel, he thought with a rueful smile, probably knew by now how many freckles he had on his bottom.

None of that could be helped, he knew, and he chose to follow the precept so frequently preached by his Master: live in the moment. And, in this moment, he had no option but to ignore what he could not change. Luckily, the Jedi order instilled in its initiates, from a very early age, the understanding that nudity was nothing very remarkable, and certainly nothing to be ashamed of. Indeed, the only embarrassment he could ever remember over such a trivial issue was more in the vein of indignation over an invasion of his privacy than any real concern over being seen in the buff.

He hadn't a clue why anyone would get excited over the view of his bare behind; it was, after all, just like everybody else's.

And it never dawned on him that there might be dozens or even scores of inhabitants of the Jedi Temple - telescope owners or users, all - who would have been delighted to explain it to him.

The chronometer flashed; two minutes now.

He rose easily, mindful of the pale illumination of his chamber, preset by security, and padded to the 'fresher, careful to maintain a fiction of muddle-headed drowsiness. He had examined the holo-cam placement in the alcove earlier, and determined that there were a couple of blindspots. Not really large enough to allow him an opportunity to do much besides scratch himself in privacy, if he so chose, but large enough, at least, to allow one thing. He grabbed a towel, fluffy and voluminous (only the best for N'Vell Aji's pleasure slave, he thought bitterly) and wrapped it around his hips.

If he was about to confront his destiny, he preferred to do it without his genitals on display. 

He then stood quietly, trying to center his thoughts. Which, he realized quickly, was almost impossible with the damnable collar still in place at his throat, a collar that was, unfortunately, electronically-controlled, and impervious to any manual attempt to remove it.

He was trembling, and a bright flare of annoyance lanced through him, sharp and bitter. He was Jedi; even without the Force to support him, he shouldn't shiver like a frightened child. What kind of a Jedi . . .

. . . doesn't notice that the trembling isn't within himself, but in the room, the quarters, the building around him?

Obi-Wan grinned, and then felt the sound - the sound that had been there for some time, but so minimal and low-pitched it had almost been below the level of detection by the human ear.

And the sound and the tremor grew, feeding each other, until the roaring vibration actually threw him to his knees and caused him to cover his ears.

The city had been in the grip of midnight, that eerie moment of suspended animation, when it had begun; and no one, initially, had noticed that the stars above the foothills, commonly visible in a comma-shaped sweep, had winked and glittered strangely, before being obscured altogether by a huge, wedge-shaped shadow. The shadow itself was silent, but the great force used to maneuver it into position was not, and was the source of the rising roar that soon tossed city residents and troop barracks dwellers alike from their beds.

The _Lady Ghost_ was a creature of spacial deeps like all her sister ships, a wanderer accustomed to the touch of nebulaic brilliance and star shimmer; she did not like atmosphere much, wallowing gracelessly among climactic currents, and she made her objections known very clearly.

But Palani Vau-Bremayne, regardless of how much she loved the monolithic vessel, was prepared to do whatever was necessary to overcome the ship's tantrum, and hold true to course and mission. The tractor controls were every bit as upset and obstinate as the rest of the command interphases, but she would hold everything together for as long as it took, by sheer will power if necessary. Nobody, by all the gods, was going to get away with taking one of their people away from them.

It was doubtful that the sentries in the guard towers ever knew what hit them, for they were looking in the wrong direction.

The _Lady_ and her sister ship, the _Cape Vellid_ , hovered off to the East, the teeth-rattling roar of their engines drawing the eyes, not to mention, the cannon fire, of the guard towers and their powerful laser batteries. But the range was extreme for the tower-mounted cannons, and they accomplished little beyond expending ammunition.

The weapon launched by the _Lady_ and her companion, on the other hand, was something else entirely, both infinitely more powerful than the cannon's energy bursts, and measures of magnitude more effective.

Since the shielding around the city was multi-layered and very powerful, it was almost a certainty that no energy bolt would penetrate with any degree of success.

The same, however, could not be said of several hundred metric tons of derelict freighter, most recently a resident of the swarm of tumbling debris buried within the Catling's Eye Nebula, a huge, dark hulk which, positioned with exquisite precision by the _Lady_ 's tractor beams, fell to the Drimulan surface in near perfect, eerie silence, until it reached its target with a tremendous concussion, taking out four guard towers and three complete sections of shields and shield generators in one gigantic cataclysm.

There was a moment of breathless silence, like reality suspended, once the monolithic hulk settled to its final resting place.

Then the night exploded, as the Drimulan regulars, highly trained mercenaries all, raced to re-establish a defensive perimeter, and a strange, high-pitched warble rose from the forests around the city; rose, and deepened until it set up a resonance that seemed to vibrate against the bones of the human skull.

When the members of the Drimulan Resistance broke from the cover of the forest, it was as if the entire planet had erupted in leaping bodies, all grasping custom-designed, hand-hewn versions of explosive bowcasters. They came from all sides, and they came under cover of a massive weapon such as the regular troops had not seen before, but would be hard put to ever forget.

Massive solid spheres erupted from the forest's canopy, launched from great, cumbersome catapults, racing upward in an arching trajectory, slowing slightly as they lifted but regaining speed as they began their descent into the outer perimeter of the city. The defensive shielding, so effective against plasma weapons, was easily penetrated by the spheres' solid bulk, and, on impact, the spheres burst in a spectacular flash of prismatic brilliance. Within roiled the deadly luminescence of tagmonditurium fumes, fumes which spread quickly across the ground, and swirled greedily around any warm-blooded lifeform.

Had the mercenaries been less than professional soldiers, had they been thugs and cutthroats and common criminals, the battle would have been short-lived, but these were warriors of the old school. Analyzing the threat immediately, they donned protective gear quickly and resumed their defensive posture.

The battle was joined, and it would not end quickly.

In the near distance, the _Lady Ghost_ and the _Cape Vellid_ gratefully pulled away from the greedy grasp of gravity, leaping eagerly to rejoin the stars, and to face the Drimulan orbital patrols now rushing toward them.

***************** ****************** *****************

"In there," said Qui-Gon Jinn, with no trace of uncertainty in his voice.

Solitaire nodded, but held up a precautionary hand. "Give me two minutes," she breathed, "to take out the security team."

"Let me," volunteered the Jedi.

But Captain Fer'mia restrained the Master with one steely hand. "No. I don't want them coming back to give us trouble later. Soli, handle it."

As the Weapons Master vanished into the shadowy corridor, Qui-Gon stared at the Captain with scantly-concealed revulsion. 

"This is our war, Master Jinn," explained the Drimulan, completely unperturbed by the Jedi's dismay. "And the winner of this war will be determined by how many of the bad guys die along the way. It's not pleasant or honorable or Jedi pretty, but it's the truth."

"Tell me, Captain," said Qui-Gon softly, "did Obi-Wan accept that?"

Fer'mia was forced to smile. "Why do you ask a question when you already know the answer?"

Now it was Jinn's turn. "Force of habit."

"Someone's coming," said the Drimulan, dropping to a crouch.

But the Master was unconcerned. "An ally, if I'm not mistaken."

The size of the shadow that detached itself from the darkness of the corridor was ample testimony to the identity of the new arrival.

"Jeb," said Fer'mia, more relieved than he cared to admit, "have you seen him? Is he all right?"

"Ain't never gonna be all right," replied the huge Corellian, "long as he's in that witch's hands."

"It's been two minutes," said Qui-Gon.

"Then what are we waiting for?" Fer'mia stood and moved forward.

"Don't you want to wait to be sure?" said the Jedi.

Fer'mia shook his head. "If Soli said two minutes, then two minutes it is. Let's go."

It was at that exact moment, of course, that pandemonium broke loose outside, which Qui-Gon found quite reassuring. If the mercenary army and the consortia brass were concerned with the frontal assault on the city, they'd have little time to remember one Jedi padawan - he hoped.

In the uproar of the next few minutes, several things happened all at once, including the breathless arrival of Solitaire, back from the successful conclusion of her errand, the abrupt departure of Jebbitz, a speculative gleam in eyes ordinarily not so clever or wary, and the simultaneous thrust of a lightsaber blade through electronic portal controls on one side of a door, and the successful safe-cracker style manipulation of electronic codes in the input panel on the other side of the same door.

It was debatable which of the two door-openers was more astonished to come face to face with the other.

For a heartbeat, there was only silence.

Then Obi-Wan was engulfed in the presence of his Master, swept up in arms that tightened like iron bands, and held against a massive chest that seemed to reverberate from the beat of the heart within it.

"Oh, my Obi," muttered the Master, bearing the boy to his knees, still cradled against his chest. "Thank the Force, you're still in one piece. If anything had happened to you, I don't know how I'd . . ."

Obi-Wan was silent, trembling violently, and Qui-Gon, sensing something in his padawan that he didn't think he wanted to know, pushed away slightly, and peered into those incredibly luminous eyes, eyes awash now with tears that swelled and overflowed in complete silence.

"What is it, Obi?" asked the Master, suddenly terrified.

"Nothing," replied the youth, tucking his face into the comfort of the Master's shoulder. "Nothing, I'm just . . .tired."

And Qui-Gon heard something in that sweet, cultured voice that he had heard only very rarely in all the years he had known the boy. Obi-Wan was lying to him; of that, he had no doubt.

But he would not push him, not now; not when time was so short, and danger, so grave.

"We need to get out of here," said Obi-Wan, rising so quickly that he was stricken with a bout of dizziness.

"Hold on now," said Fer'mia, exchanging glances with Qui-Gon. "What about this virus they infected you with? Solitaire said there were treatments of some kind."

Obi-Wan hesitated. "Maybe, but I don't know where they are. We need to get out while we can."

"The vials were in the chiller in the lab," said Solitaire. "I'll get them."

"It'll take too long," objected Obi-Wan. "We need to get out now."

Qui-Gon reached out and grasped his padawan's shoulders, and forced the young man to face him squarely. "Why don't you want us to retrieve the vials, Obi-Wan? And no more evasions; the truth now."

The young Jedi sighed. "Because it'll only prolong the inevitable, Master Jinn. Once I leave this place, it's a day - or two or three, at most."

"Obi-Wan, I've never known you to give up so easily. We'll use the drug in the vials to synthesize more."

The padawan said nothing, but his eyes were huge pools of shadow, as a disturbance rose in the corridor beyond the entry.

A disheveled - and totally furious - N'Vell Aji was shoved roughly through the doorway by the ham-sized hand of Obi-Wan's Corellian bodyguard.

"Well, well, well," said Arain Fer'mia, not bothering to hide a grin of delight as a huge explosion echoed from the courtyard outside. "What have we here?"

There was a second explosion, and a flurry of shouts, intermixed with the zip-hiss of energy weapons.

N'Vell, dressed in a dressing gown of beaded jet, was breathing hard as she straightened to face them, her hair tumbling over her left shoulder. Qui-Gon Jinn spared the smallest instant to observe that she was very like her brother at that moment, elegant, beautiful, haughty - and deadly. Her eyes met his, and he almost recoiled from the glitter of madness therein.

"You'll never get him out of here, Jinn," she hissed. Then she paused, and - incredibly - smiled. "But it wouldn't do you any good, even if you did. Either way, he's as good as dead."

"Talks big, don't she?" drawled Jebbitz, as he leveled a blaster at her face from a range of about a half-meter.

Much to her displeasure, she recoiled slightly.

"Take that collar off 'im," demanded the Corellian.

"No." She drew herself up, and stared at the hulking bodyguard with cold eyes.

Jebbitz nodded slightly and extended his hand. The blaster was now touching her forehead. "At this range," he said easily, "I can either blow your fucking head clean off, or I can put it on stun, and just scramble your brains - forever. And make some real interestin' scars too."

With a gesture exhibiting absolutely no trace of her characteristic grace, the Telosian princess dug a control unit out of the pocket of her gown and tossed it toward the Jedi Master.

It was the work of seconds to disengage and remove the Force inhibitor, and Obi-Wan fell once more to his knees as the warmth of the Force rushed to fill the vacuum the device had created within him. He gulped for it, as he would have gulped for air, if deprived of it.

It was almost intoxicating, and his head spun accordingly.

There were smiles all around as the rescue team watched his recovery.

Jebbitz, who was turning out to be a valuable resource of pragmatic preparation, pulled several garments from under his voluminous tunic, and tossed them toward the young Jedi. "Thought you might want to cover up, before we parade out of here."

Gratefully, Obi-Wan grabbed the clothing and regarded the big Corellian with a fond smile. "I don't know how I ever managed without you, Jeb," he said softly before turning away to dress, not noticing the swell of sadness in his bodyguard's eyes. Something was still not right here, and even Jebbitz, possessing absolutely no soupcon of Force sensitivity and very little intuitive ability, knew it.

Through the paristeel windows, there were steady flashes now, as well as the metallic clang of projectile weapons impacting body armor. The battle was spreading and drawing ever closer. Another explosion ripped through the compound, and there was a massive upheaval, which threw Obi-Wan against the medical monitoring equipment and everyone else to the floor. Everyone, that is, except N'Vell Aji, who had positioned herself perfectly to take advantage of any opportunity that arose.

When the floor stabilized, she was standing just two meters from Obi-Wan, holding a small, but lethal blaster, aimed at his chest.

"From this distance," she said coldly, "I can hardly miss."

Arain Fer'mia took a half-step forward, pausing when she tightened her grip on the small weapon. "You got one shot," he said reasonably. "You shoot him; we shoot you."

She smiled, and Fer'mia recognized the futility of trying to reason with madness. "But he'd still be dead," she answered, "and I don't think you want that, now do you?"

"But it makes no real difference, does it?" Obi-Wan's voice was weary, and oh, so, reasonable. Fer'mia thought it the most frightening thing he'd ever heard.

"Tell them," said Obi-Wan harshly. "Tell them, or I will."

She stepped toward him. "Don't you understand, my Jedi," she said softly. "If I lose you, I lose everything. So I'll offer you a deal. You come with me, and they get to walk out of here alive."

"Hel-lo-o!" said Fer'mia, almost laughing. "I hate to burst your bubble, Princess, but your team is getting its ass kicked out there. We don't need your guarantee of safe passage."

She smiled, her eyes never leaving Obi-Wan's face. "But you do, don't you, my Jedi? You need my guarantee."

With a cry of pure rage, he leapt forward and swung his arm to deflect her aim, just as Jebbitz grabbed the young Jedi and thrust him aside.

The whine of the blaster was astonishingly loud in the crowded room.

Obi-Wan wondered, for a moment, why he didn't feel it. At that range, it should have been like being doused with liquid fire.

Then he looked down and understood, and felt a jagged spear of unbelievable grief and rage rise within him.

N'Vell Aji backed slowly away, as Obi-Wan went to his knees beside the huge Corellian. The odor of cooked flesh almost overwhelmed him as he took the massive paws in his hands, unable to drag his eyes away from the smoking ruin of Jeb's chest. Jebbitz was still and pale as marble.

"N-o-o-o-o-o," cried the young Jedi, and leapt to his feet in a blur of motion, his hand extended, and Qui-Gon's lightsaber detached itself from the Master's belt and flew with perfect certainty into the padawan's hand. It's emerald glow was painfully bright in the shadowed room.

Obi-Wan raised the blade as he moved forward, and N'Vell Aji backed further away, her eyes wide now and black with terror.

"Obi-Wan," said the voice from behind him. The voice that had soothed him and led him; the voice that had comforted him and saved him; the voice that was synonymous with safety and warmth and love. "Don't do this, Obi-Wan. You're stronger than this. Don't do this, my padawan."

The sister of Xanatos paused in her slow retreat, and seemed to be considering her options. Abruptly, she straightened her spine and glared at her pursuer.

"What are you waiting for, you sniveling coward?" she demanded. "You don't have the courage, do you? Come on, Baby Jedi. Do us both a favor. Put us both out of our misery. I'll finally be with my brother again, always providing you fools are right and the Force takes us all, and you can finally be free of mourning that you'll always be second best. That he'll never love you the way he loved Xanatos."

"Obi-Wan." That magnificent baritone stroked him as if it were a physical appendage. "You know she's wrong. You know better. Please, put the saber down, and come to me."

The young Jedi simply stood there, the bright blade raised high, as he felt his fury and his hatred and his pain roil within him, insisting that this woman deserved no Jedi mercy, deserved no honor, deserved nothing but the death he could so easily deliver.

"No," he murmured. "She can't get away with this. She can't. . ."

"Stop sniveling," she snapped, "and do it."

He raised the blade, and the air was suddenly rent by the harsh, shrill blare of not one, but two blasters. Caught in the phosphorescent radiance of crossfire, N'Vell Aji appeared, for an instant, to light up from within, just before she was charred to unrecognizable cinders.

Arain Fer'mia and Solitaire exchanged satisfied glances as they reholstered their weapons.

Obi-Wan simply stood, wavering slightly.

"Obi?" It was a harsh whisper, barely recognizable.

"My gods," murmured Solitaire. "He's alive."

The padawan threw himself down at the Corellian's side.

"Obi?"

"Shhhh. I'm here, Jeb. Be quiet. Save your strength."

"You all right, Obi?"

"I'm fine," the youth replied, choking back a sob.

"Kept my promise." 

"Yes, you did. Now don't talk."

Rheumy eyes - unfocussed - opened and swung wildly, searching for something. "Can't see you," came the whisper.

Obi-Wan leaned forward, until his face was mere inches from the Corellian. "Can you see me now?"

Amazingly, given the unimaginable pain the Corellian must be enduring from the massive trauma of the fatal burn, one huge hand lifted and one thick finger traced the line of Obi-Wan's jaw. "So pretty," said Jebbitz. "Love you, pretty Obi. 'Member me."

Obi-Wan took a deep, shuddering breath, closed his eyes, and reached for the Force. The few days when it had been locked away from him almost seemed to have intensified his connection, as, when he reached, it swelled around him like a floodtide.

"You're not going anywhere," he muttered, and plunged his hands into the bloody crater of the Corellian's wound, the power of the Force pouring through him like sunlight focused through a magnifying lens.

"Omigods," murmured Fer'mia, eyes huge and alight with wonder. "You can see it."

And see it they certainly could; the light of the power of the Force created a cocoon around the youth and the object of his healing.

Qui-Gon Jinn wiped the tears from his eyes before stepping forward. "Stop, Obi-Wan. You know you can't do this."

The young Jedi gave no indication that he'd heard.

"If he can heal the wound . . ." said Solitaire.

"He can't," said Qui-Gon, sighing, "unless he gives up his own life in the process. The life force of one body can't support two lives."

Fer'mia studied Obi-Wan's face, then looked over at the Jedi Master. "That's what he's planning to do, isn't it?"

Qui-Gon nodded. "Help me quickly," he said, "or we'll be too late."

When he attempted to pull Obi-Wan away from the Corellian's body, Solitaire and Fer'mia stepped in to offer their comfort to Jebbitz as his life essence faded to nothingness.

And Obi-Wan Kenobi screamed, and fought futilely to free himself from his Master's grasp. "It doesn't matter," he insisted. "Let me go; I can save him."

"And kill yourself in the process," snapped Qui-Gon, dragging his struggling apprentice upright, and clasping him with arms like iron bands.

Tears poured down the young Jedi's face. "Don't you get it," he said finally, his voice bleak and hopeless. "It doesn't matter; I'm already dead."

He was still fighting to free himself when, mercifully, he collapsed and fell into a well of nothingness, where pain and loss were only words, without meaning.

His last coherent thought was that he wished only to never awaken.

*************** **************** ******************   
tbc


	34. Darker Grows the Night

Chapter 34: Darker Grows the Night

_Hope, like the gleaming taper's light,_  
_Adorns and cheers our way;_  
_And still, as darker grows the night,_  
_Emits a brighter ray._

_The Captivity_ \- - - Oliver Goldsmith

 

The first thing he saw, when he was once more capable of seeing anything, was the charcoaled lump of flesh that had - scant minutes earlier - been the vibrant, living body of a beautiful, passionate woman.

He felt nothing. Not even revulsion. 

He tried again, looking straight at the complete and utter annihilation of all beauty, all semblance of life and organic substance, and felt nothing.

There should have been, at the very least, some small sense of residual loss, some small grief over wasted potential.

There was nothing.

And deep down within the tiniest, blackest places in his heart, he felt something twist, like a sliver of shredded metal, and bury itself where it would forever resist any pale nuance of light, and any attempt to dislodge it.

He drew a deep, ragged breath, and finally felt the pain of it, but knew it had nothing to do with mourning for the forfeited life of the beautiful creature who was now no more than a lump of roasted flesh. He mourned instead, for what he had once been, and was no longer.

He tried to straighten to a sitting position, but found himself restrained, albeit very gently, by a leaden weight hovering above him. 

"Be still, Padawan," rumbled that familiar baritone. "Rest for a moment more."

But it was just a milli-second too late for that, as the young Jedi caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of a billow of white fabric, floating for a moment on a soft current of air, then falling gently to obscure the massive figure lying motionless on the marble floor.

And the feeling came to him then - all the feeling - all the horrible, hopeless feeling that he had been unable to find within himself for the loss of a spoiled, misguided young woman; it all crashed through his useless shields and battered his senses, with the intensity and formidable power of tornadic winds. And, layered within the horror and the guilt, there was something else - something that he could not identify that seemed to create a distortion in his connection to the Force. He could not quite bring himself to face the possibility that his failures throughout this ordeal might have damaged his ability to touch the great source of warmth and comfort that had been his constant companion throughout his life.

He was not ready to even concede such a possibility; he didn't know if he would ever be ready for that.

"No," he whispered, folding in on himself, wanting only not to know what he knew. "Force, no!"

Strong arms, steady, implacable, were lifting him now, pulling him into their incredibly sturdy shelter. "Shhh, Obi. It's all right. Be still."

But the words were only nonsense sounds, not meant to convey anything, meant only to soothe his feverish heart.

It would not be all right. It would never be all right.

He remembered himself standing before the haughty visage of the princess of Telos, lightsaber poised and ready to descend.

He remembered the actinic flare of purpose - and pain - that had flashed through the Force as he had been pushed aside.

No. It would never be all right again.

With more strength than he thought he had, he pushed away from the sanctuary of his Master's embrace, and moved to kneel beside the shrouded body of the gentle giant who had saved his life.

The irony of it was exquisitely painful.

"Obi-Wan," said his Master, very gently, "it's time to go. There's nothing you can do for him now."

The young Jedi's eyes were almost vacant somehow, stunned into emptiness. "Two days," he murmured.

"What?" asked Arain Fer'mia, dropping to one knee beside the boy and laying his hand on a trembling forearm. "What about two days, Obi?"

"That's what his life bought."

Qui-Gon stepped forward quickly. "What do you mean, Padawan?"

A pale, listless hand lifted and gestured toward the charred remains of N'Vell Aji. "The only cure for my illness died with her."

And he was suddenly engulfed in the essence of the man who leaned over him and pulled him to his feet. "What do you mean?"

"What he means," said a sardonic voice, heavily laced with wry amusement, "is that you may have been a trifle premature with your execution."

A security screen hovering in one corner of the room blinked rapidly, before resolving into a pale flickering image. Brath Ozvey, thought Obi-Wan, looked as cool and collected as if he were being interviewed for commercial holovision.

Solitaire stepped forward abruptly, four small syringes clasped in her gloved fingers. "I've got his medications. We can synthesize all he needs."

Ozvey smiled and surveyed the young Jedi who now stood silent and motionless in the circle of his Master's embrace. "Do you want to tell them, or shall I?"

Obi-Wan sighed and allowed his eyes to drift closed. He didn't remember ever before being so exhausted. "I wouldn't dream of spoiling your fun."

The General nodded. "Those vials contain a genetic serum," he said easily, in the same tone of voice one might use in describing a dish one wished to prepare for dinner. "A serum that can only be extracted directly from the bloodstream, of one particular, genetically-specific individual. It can't be synthesized." He raised his head, and, ignoring Obi-Wan entirely, stared straight into the eyes of Qui-Gon Jinn. "That individual is now a lump of charcoal on the floor before you."

The Master managed, somehow, not to wince. "Obi-Wan," he said softly, stroking gentle fingers through cropped ginger hair, "is this true?"

The young Jedi nodded. "As far as I know, it is. It's what they told me."

"And this?" demanded Solitaire, holding up the syringes.

"A one day supply," replied Ozvey firmly. "After that, assuming you're going to take him out of that environment, he'll have one more day. At most."

"What about this environment?" asked Fer'mia, hearing the possibility of reprieve in Ozvey's tone.

"Providing the seal is intact," came the answer, "he might last a week or so in there. Of course, he won't enjoy it much, but he would still be alive - technically. The virus works, in part, by shutting down his immune system, so anything that keeps him away from contaminants and microbes gives him more time."

"But he'll still be sick," said Fer'mia, breathing heavily. "That's what you're saying."

Ozvey grinned. "Among other things."

"Master Jedi," said Solitaire softly, "I also found this in the lab. Maybe it would be useful?"

It was an electronic research notebook, jammed with notes, all, unfortunately, in some sort of trinary code, and Qui-Gon nodded. He had seen such research material before, and knew that scientists working on commercial applications of products were among the most paranoid individuals in the entire galaxy, and were unlikely to use a code that could be broken by mortal men, or banks of computers, for that matter.

But it might be worth a try. For one person.

He looked down into the mask that obscured the face of Fer'mia's Weapons Master. "Please contact your ship," he said softly, "and have them contact the Temple, on Coruscant. I sent for a healer, and I need her here immediately."

She nodded and went to do his bidding.

"You called Mira," said Obi-Wan, a strange note in his voice that caused Qui-Gon to turn a piercing gaze toward him.

"Yes."

And Obi-Wan did something then that accomplished what nothing else had managed to do, during this entire upside-down, frustrating mission; Obi-Wan nodded, and Qui-Gon's knees suddenly felt as if they would no longer support him. His padawan had accepted - without argument - the need for summoning his own personal Healer, and Qui-Gon knew at that moment what it was to taste abject terror. To the best of his memory - and his memory was very good indeed - Obi-Wan had never in his life given in to his own weakness in such a fashion. 

Which told the Master a great deal more than he wanted to know.

Obi-Wan believed that he was going to die, and allowing the summoning of the healer, without a major argument on his part, was only meant to provide comfort for those who would remain behind, so that they could rest assured that they had done everything possible.

Moving with the blink-of-an-eye quickness only possible for a Jedi Master, Qui-Gon grasped his padawan's shoulder with fingers clenched painfully tight, and forced Obi-Wan to look up at him. "You," he said steadily, "are not going to die. Do you hear me?"

Even as a tear spilled from the corner of his eye, the young Jedi smiled. "You can't simply order me to stay alive, Master. It doesn't work that way."

"Solitaire," said Fer'mia, "check the seals. Make sure they're intact."

"I won't stay here," said the boy. "I want to . . ."

"I know what you want," interrupted the Captain, "but you will stay here. You're still under my command, you know. Jedi or not."

Obi-Wan nodded toward the window, where the battle raged ever closer, fires now blazing in adjacent buildings, and exchanges of weapons fire giving way in some places to hand-to-hand combat. "What about the fighting? I can . . . ."

"What you can do, Padawan," said Qui-Gon, "is what you're told."

"How very touching!" Brath Ozvey was still staring at them from the monitor screen.

"Do we know where he's broadcasting from?" asked Qui-Gon softly, head lowered to prevent the General from reading his lips.

"No," answered Fer'mia, also avoiding the holo-cam. "Obviously, they've got a command center somewhere deep in the complex, but we haven't found it yet."

"You realize, I assume," called Ozvey, "that this is all an exercise in futility. You must know that the final victory will be ours."

Fer'mia turned to face the General, and his eyes were rhymed with ice. "If you use that device," he said firmly, no trace of dread or uncertainty in his voice, "you will damn yourself for all eternity, and you will spend whatever is left of your life forever looking over your shoulder - looking for me, or someone like me. And you will be found, General, no matter how long it takes. You can count on it."

Ozvey smiled. "Perhaps, or perhaps you will finally learn to respect your betters, Captain Fer'mia."

The Ghost allowed no physical reaction to the fact that the General had used his real name, as he turned away to answer a soft whirring whistle on the comm unit at his belt. Obviously, his cloak of secrecy had finally been penetrated, and he realized that he was fortunate it had not happened sooner. That it had happened now was of little importance; he had no family members left on the planet who could be used against him. A few had escaped the carnage and fled to safety; most were dead.

When he looked up again, he was smiling. "It would appear, General, that the outer compound is now under our control, as are bases near K'uhringga, Belostiam, and T'hrevex."

On the monitor screen, it was obvious that Ozvey was being given news that he found less than comforting. After a brief conference with an associate, he turned back to the screen. "You might assume that congratulations are in order, Captain," he said, smiling. Then the smile froze and vanished. "But they would be very premature. You may have won a skirmish, but the war is just begun, and your time is running out."

Deliberately, he turned aside, ignoring any further input from the Drimulan, and leaned forward to focus on Obi-Wan Kenobi. "It's a shame, little Ben. I was so looking forward to getting to know you better. But fate has taken that opportunity from us. Strangely enough, I honestly believe I would have saved you - if I could."

He reached out to disengage the feed.

"Wait!" called Qui-Gon, a small measure of Jedi compulsion in his tone. "Your exploitation of this planet is ended, General. If you depart now, without further bloodshed, you may be able to find asylum somewhere in the Outer Rim or in the Corporate Sector. But if you continue in this madness, there will be no sanctuary for you. Anywhere."

Ozvey paused. "And who will assure my downfall, Master Jinn? The Jedi?" The last word was spoken like a curse.

Qui-Gon simply returned the General's gaze, stern and unwavering.

Ozvey was first to break eye contact, but he was wearing that wry smile again. "Too late for that, isn't it, Master Jinn?" he said softly. "For that line has already been crossed. No matter what I do from this moment forward, to these people, to this world - I cannot undo what has already been done. Can I?"

Again Qui-Gon said nothing, but Ozvey was determined.

"Can I?"

"No." The Jedi Master made no pretense of not understanding.

Ozvey nodded. "In that case, you'll understand if I choose to go out with a bang."

He cut the transmission abruptly, and the silence from the grounds surrounding the building suddenly seemed eerie - and heavy.

"He's going to set it off," said Fer'mia, wishing the throbbing in his head would ease up sufficiently for him to see without the red haze obscuring his vision.

Amazingly, with the brush of a hand across his temple, the pain was gone, and he looked up to find Obi-Wan offering him a weary smile.

With a snarl, the Ghost seized the hand that had healed him, and jerked the young Jedi forward until they were almost nose-to-nose. "Don't you dare," he hissed. "To strengthen me, you weaken yourself, and don't think I can't tell. I may not be Jedi, but I'm not stupid. You must use your strength to heal yourself."

But Obi-Wan remained serene and unperturbed. "I can't," he replied, "so I might as well use it where it will do some good."

He turned then to face his Master. "You can't do this because of me, Master. I understand what you're feeling, but if you do this in my name, you betray everything you ever taught me. And you betray me. You have to go and stop him, and capture him, if you can. But you can't kill him or punish him because of me."

"Padawan . . ."

"No," said the boy firmly. "We've been down this road before. If you do this, you shame me, and I've already shamed myself quite enough today."

Qui-Gon looked down into that well-loved face and felt the training bond stir between them and, simultaneously, felt Obi-Wan struggle to keep it closed off, to prevent his thoughts from touching those of his Master.

"You've done nothing to shame yourself, Padawan." The Master laid huge, gentle hands on Obi-Wan's shoulders.

A comforting gesture, but there was no comfort to be had.

Obi-Wan said nothing, but looked up at his Master, and Qui-Gon caught his breath sharply and wished, for perhaps the thousandth time in his life - or, more likely, the millionth - that his padawan had not been blessed with eyes that could express volumes, without a single word.

"All right," he said finally. "I'll try to . . ."

And the little brat actually managed to dredge up a small smile. "Do or . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," replied the Master, pushing the youth down against the softness of the bed. "I will do - if you promise me you'll stay here and rest."

Obi-Wan sighed. "It's useless, you know. I could accomplish more if you . ."

"You will rest," said Qui-Gon. "Voluntarily, or otherwise."

The Padawan's eyes widened. "Isn't there a rule about not using a mind whammy on your padawan?"

"No." Jinn was adamant.

"Well, there should be."

"What about this?" said Solitaire abruptly, drawing a tiny, rounded control device from her pocket.

Obi-Wan could not quite suppress a shudder.

"Give it to me," said Qui-Gon, assuming, correctly, that his Padawan would have no desire to touch the control, but would not feel safe with it in any hands other than his Master's.

Solitaire handed it over, with only a fractional hesitation. "It's completely de-activated," she explained, "but I'm not sure about the explosive. That may be a completely autonomic, passive function."

"Which means," said Fer'mia firmly, "that you stay here, Obi, until we get somebody who can extract that little beastie from your head."

No one mentioned the ugly little thought that was racing through all their minds, the image of tiny coils of wire, twining and spinning and penetrating through nodes of ganglia, attaching to nerves and capillaries and thrusting deep into whorls of tissue.

Slave tags were not meant to be extracted from living tissue.

Obi-Wan looked like he meant to argue, but in the end held his peace, choosing instead to kneel once more at the side of the gentle giant who had given his own life to save that of his Jedi charge.

Solitaire stepped behind him and leaned forward, bracing her hands on his shoulders, and pitching her electronic voice for his hearing only. "He loved you, Obi, and he wouldn't want you to grieve over him."

"It's so useless," he replied tonelessly. "He died for nothing."

One gloved hand stroked the side of his throat with aching gentleness. "I don't think he'd agree. Now you stay here, and let us do our jobs so we can come back to you. OK?"

He didn't like it, and they all sensed it, but he would do as he'd been asked. He really had very little choice.

He rose, and paused in mid-stride, eyes fixed on nothing.

"Obi-Wan?" said Qui-Gon, so intimately attuned to that kindred mind that he sensed the disturbance almost before his apprentice did.

"Do you feel them, Master?" The padawan's eyes remained closed, but it was obvious that he was seeing something far beyond the confines of the room.

The Master forced himself to stillness, and reached out through the Force. "They're very frightened," he said softly.

Obi-Wan's eyes jerked open. "They're more than frightened. They're terrified." He turned to regard Arain Fer'mia with wide, shadowed eyes. "Your people, Rain, they're . . . You've got to stop them."

"What are you talking about?" The Ghost could not quite suppress his suspicions.

"They're civilians, Captain," said Qui-Gon. "All hiding themselves deep in the complex, and your freedom fighters are closing in."

"This is war, Jedi," retorted Fer'mia hoarsely. "I've told you before. You stay out of it."

The Jedi Master drew a deep breath and took a step forward, sparks of outrage in his eyes. But it was the younger Jedi who got there first, his wrath clasped about him like a cloak. "Don't tell me to stay out of it, Rain," he said solemnly. "I've seen what your people endured; I've watched . . " his voice broke, and he had to struggle to regain his composure,". . . innocence dying in my arms. And now, you just want to turn your back and let it happen to someone else. There are children in those shelters. Innocent women and children. And others, too - simple civilians who never hurt anybody in their lives. Never did anything wrong, but get caught on the wrong side in somebody's war."

"Innocence, my friend," said Fer'mia coldly, "is probably in the eye of the beholder in this case. And people die in war." He steadfastly refused to meet the youth's eyes.

But Obi-Wan was not about to let it go. "Soldiers die in war, Rain. It's horrible, but it's true. Jedi die in war, and ship's captains sometimes die in war. But children only die in war if someone allows it to happen. They call it collateral damage, when they teach about it at the military academies; did you know that? Collateral damage, like what might happen to a building or a vehicle or some other inanimate object that just happened to be in the way. Collateral damage doesn't sound like blood and guts and wasted lives." A poorly suppressed sob shook him suddenly. "And children's bodies, burnt and twisted."

With a deep, hoarse inhalation, Fer'mia finally turned to face the padawan, and barely managed not to recoil from the desolation in those luminous eyes.

"Please," said Obi-Wan, barely audible. "Please stop this. You're the only one who can."

The Ghost suddenly reached out, and touched a single index finger to a bruise on the boy's cheekbone and smiled gently. "Those innocent lives you're so concerned about are probably all mid-level government and consortia officials, who condemned thousands of Drimulans to death in the mines. You do understand that, don't you?"

"Children, Rain." Obi-Wan was not going to be deterred. "Children that never hurt anybody. You plan to slaughter them, for what their parents might or might not have done. Maybe you think like some professional soldiers who believe that, if you spare the children, they just grow up to come after you for what you did to their parents. Is that what you think?"

Fer'mia sighed, "I . . ."

"Because if that's what you think," continued Obi-Wan, his voice shaking now, with weariness, and pain, and anger he could no longer completely suppress, "then I've been fighting for something that never really existed. I thought I was fighting to save your people; I didn't understand that what you really wanted was revenge."

For a moment, such rage flared in the Drimulan's eyes that Obi-Wan would not have been surprised to find himself on the deadly end of a blaster bolt.

But Arain Fer'mia had had much practice over the years in reining in his anger and flexing his patience.

Finally, he nodded, and turned to collect his people. But when he started for the exit, he turned back suddenly and bent to whisper in Obi-Wan's ear.

"We'll do it your way, Little Jedi. I'll stop the bloodshed. But, when this is all over, you and I have some unfinished business to resolve. When you're well again, and strong enough to defend yourself, I think I'm going to have to kick your charming little ass, just for good measure. Don't you ever speak to me like that again! Understood?"

Obi-Wan's smile was tentative, but heartfelt. "Completely, and I'll look forward to it."

Fer'mia's grin was broad, and he actually winked at Qui-Gon Jinn. "Cheeky little bastard, isn't he?"

Master Jinn simply reached out and laid a large, comforting hand on his padawan's shoulder. "Captain," he said, with a sigh, "you don't know the half of it."

****************** ************** *****************

The secure command center of the Drimulan Regular Army was deep within the complex of the city, buffered completely by residential and commercial areas, and concealed behind the very best shielding that money and science could provide, not to mention formidable natural barriers.

It was spacious, stocked with sufficient food, water and supplies to allow a sizeable staff to withstand a siege of long duration, not to mention an arsenal to rival that of many small nations. The amenities were both functional and even elegant, to some degree, and comfort had been a priority for its designers. Those who would take refuge here were, after all, elite command staff members who had, to all intents and purposes, ruled Drimula for decades. In addition, it was equipped with state-of-the-art communications and information systems and the capacity to monitor, in complete anonymity, virtually every inch of the compound surrounding it. It also sat directly above a heavily shielded launch bay, the existence of which was a carefully guarded secret. 

Deep within the shadows of that bay - motionless now, and waiting - sat a sleek private yacht of Telosian registry, among several other vessels of more military design, including an elegant, Corellian corvette. But those who would use these vehicles to escape the consequences of their final actions on this much abused world were not yet quite ready for departure; there was still much vengeance to wreak, much damage to inflict, and a wealth of research data and material to be salvaged from still functional lab facilities.

The bank of monitors in the security control center collected images from all over the city, but the tall shadowy figure frozen before them, draped in heavily embroidered robes, was oblivious to all but one.

He stared at the screen for endless minutes, then tilted his head, and stared for more minutes.

"Doctor," said Brath Ozvey, slightly annoyed at the scientist's behavior, "is there something I can help you with?"

"No. No. It's just . . ."

"Just?"

Maleonaka Sirvik sighed. "What is it do you suppose that makes a person alive and vibrant one moment, and a lump of crude matter the next? How can life become non-life, so quickly?"

"Why, Doctor," said the General, smiling archly, "are you waxing poetic on me?"

Something shadowed and fleeting flared in the scientist's eyes. "I see nothing poetic in this situation, General."

Ozvey seated himself at a control console and proceeded to enter a set of decryption codes. "I'm actually quite surprised, Sirvik," he said, absently. "It never dawned on me that you were in love with her."

Sirvik, far from being insulted, as Ozvey had, no doubt, intended, was pensive. "Yes, just as it never dawned on her."

The general raised heavy-lidded eyes to regard the researcher thoughtfully, as if debating whether or not to speak. In the end, he was just slightly too cruel, too enamored of inflicting pain and observing the result, to remain silent. "Actually, I think you're quite wrong. I think she knew only too well how you felt, and used her knowledge accordingly."

Sirvik inhaled too quickly, almost gasping, as he turned to return the general's stare. "What do you mean?"

Ozvey gestured toward the screen that had absorbed Sirvik's attention for such a long period. "What do you see there?"

"Nothing I care to look at again," came the reply, sharp, barbed.

"Nevertheless, look again," Ozvey insisted, something strangely compelling in his tone.

Sirvik turned once more and gazed into the viewscreen and felt his breath actually seize up in his throat. 

The image was not particularly clear any longer; there had been many explosions in the course of the ongoing battle, and severe damage to some of the signal relays in the complex, but it was clear enough to discern who was doing what - to whom.

Obi-Wan Kenobi had pulled a sheet from the bed, the very same bed on which he had, only hours earlier, been fondled, petted, stroked, taunted, and - very nearly - assaulted, and was spreading it gently over the charred remains of the woman who had been responsible for it all. The young Jedi then rose, and stood for a while, looking down on the shape concealed beneath the fabric.

There was no hatred or rage in his face; he just looked very, very tired.

"Now," said Ozvey firmly, "tell me why you hate that kid."

"Hate him?" echoed the researcher, sounding hollow and cold. "I don't hate him."

"All right; you don't hate him. But you spent - what? - several years - five? Ten? Developing a disease meant just for him, a disease that has no function whatsoever except to kill a young boy that you hardly know. Why did you do that, Doctor?"

"Because . . ."

Ozvey nodded, eyes gleaming with the brazen glitter of triumph. "Because she asked you to. And she wouldn't have asked if she hadn't already known you'd do it. So, you can accept it or not, but you'd have to be a real fool not to realize that she knew. She always knew."

Sirvik said nothing, but was conscious suddenly of a huge, gnawing emptiness within himself, and a growing conviction that the feelings he had buried so deeply, so long ago, had, after all, not been nearly so well hidden as he had believed. 

She had found them, and she had used them - as she had used him.

He focused once more on the blurred image of the view screen, focused on the slender figure that had moved to stand before the dark sweep of a shattered window.

A shattered window. Why was that important?

A shattered window.

A shattered window! Which meant that the medical bay was no longer sealed. Which meant that the boy had already begun to die, a process that would be delayed, for a bit, by the contents of the vials retrieved from the chem lab, but only for a little bit. A matter of hours.

Sirvik grimaced, imagining what awaited the boy. N'Vell had requested the most vile, painful, excruciating disease that he could produce, and he had given her what she wanted, just as he always had.

Why, he wondered, had he done that? What had made him accede to her wishes for such a diabolical horror?

He sighed. He had done it, as he'd done everything else she ever asked, because he had not really believed she would use it. He had believed - because he wanted to believe - that she was not so much evil and malevolent, as misunderstood and driven to the brink of sanity.

Brath Ozvey almost seemed to sense the pattern of his thoughts. "She was never a victim, you know," observed the General, dryly. "No matter what she led you to believe. She was always the hunter - the predator. If nothing else, you should understand that much now."

"Yes." It was barely more than a whisper. "Yes, she was."

Ozvey chuckled. "Well, then, cheer up, Doctor. Now you get to witness the results of your handiwork, your final gift to her. Now you get to watch the kid die, and probably in extreme agony, unless I've seriously misjudged our spiteful little lady friend. But I haven't, have I? He'll die gladly, won't he? Begging for death, long before it claims him."

"Yes. He will."

The General rose and turned to face the scientist, and there was ice in his eyes. "You must be very proud."

The scientist did not reply, and Ozvey moved past him, taking great care to avoid accidental contact.

Sirvik settled himself at the bank of monitors, and continued to watch the images before him. The figure standing at the window was little more than a darker shadow, but, occasionally, a flare of light from beyond the broken glass would reach out and illuminate a lock of red-gold hair or the pallor of a slender hand.

She had died because of this boy, and undoubtedly would have died at his very hand, had his companions not saved him the trouble.

He was nothing to Sirvik; he was Jedi, and the Jedi had destroyed almost everything that Sirvik had ever cared for. They had destroyed his work, seized the proceeds of a lifetime of effort, and sent him into exile, not once but any number of times. And they had been the source of endless torment to the woman that, against all odds and despite all counter-indicators, he had loved.

He owed them nothing; he owed _him_ nothing.

His fingers moved of their own volition, and touched the pocket within his jacket.

It was still there, safe - intact - waiting.

He sat and he watched - and he pondered.

 

******************* ******************* *****************

The night dragged on - and on - and on - and he had begun to think it would never end. The clash between the Drimulan Regulars and the Resistance fighters had moved on from the open spaces surrounding the administrative complex to the warrens and transit corridors of the military sections of the base. The entire city, above and below ground level, had been designed to be confusing and disorienting to invading troops.

Unfortunately, from the defenders' standpoint, many of the Drimulans now attempting to seize the installation were the self-same Drimulans who had composed the huge staff of servants and laborers required to manage the day-to-day menial tasks involved in the normal operations of such a city.

There were, still, however, a few secrets yet to be revealed.

And one of them was trembling on the knife-edge of exposure.

Obi-Wan tried, time and again, to gather his concentration and to fall into a meditative state, in the hope that it would both help him find the serenity that he could not seem to grasp, and retard the progress of the disease racing though his body.

He could feel it, when he allowed himself to think about it. He had given himself the injection, at the proper time, and felt the retreat of the tidal onslaught within him, but it had not retreated very far. Now it hovered - waiting.

His eyes rose to note the tracery of cracks in the sweep of windows that fronted the room, and he knew that the failure of the seal had given the illness a fresh fuel source. It was doubtful that the injections would work as effectively - or for as long - as originally expected.

There was no real discomfort yet, but he could feel his body temperature fluctuating, looking for a level that could be stabilized by his biological defense system - a system that was functioning only marginally by this time.

Finally, exhausted and disgusted, he had flopped with boneless grace across the jumbled bedding of his hospital bed, when there came a soft beeping from the tiny comm unit Solitaire had left at his bedside.

"Obi-Wan." His Master's voice - he had always loved the velvet quality of that magnificent voice - was very soft.

"Yes, Master Jinn?"

There was only the slightest of pauses, barely noticeable, as Qui-Gon registered the manner of address.

"Captain Fer'mia has redirected the Drimulan Forces' attack, and he has called for a civilian transport to fly in, under his personal guarantee of safe passage, to pick up the civilian families. They should be landing shortly."

Obi-Wan let out a pent up breath he had hardly realized he was holding. "Thank you for telling me."

In the warmth of his mind, the youth felt the stir of the bond between them and knew that his Master was trying to assess his padawan's state of mind - and being. "Are you all right, Padawan?"

Obi-Wan lifted his eyes to gaze out into the misted night. "I'm not sure," he answered after a brief hesitation. "Something doesn't feel . . ."

"Go on. What's bothering you?"

The young Jedi sighed. "Nothing, really. Just jitters, I guess."

"You haven't left your quarters, have you?" There was just the barest sense of bated breath in the inquiry.

Obi-Wan looked once more at the medley of cracks in the bank of windows and smiled wryly. "Not so much as a step," he answered, and knew immediately that the Master had sensed something evasive in that reply but couldn't quite wrap his intuition around the why of it.

There was a beat of silence before Qui-Gon continued. "Obi-Wan, I trust your instincts, sometimes more than I trust my own."

The young Jedi's eyes widened abruptly; that was an admission he had thought never to hear from his Master.

"If you feel that something is wrong," continued the Master, "then something is - very likely - wrong. Can you be a little more specific?"

"No. It's just a distortion in the Force. It's probably nothing more than the fears of the people caught in this mess."

"When did it start?" Qui-Gon, obviously, was not going to be dissuaded from a full inquisition.

"It was there when the collar came off. I can't . . . ." He was suddenly speechless, as a thick, viscous nausea swelled within him, accompanying a rising darkness in his mind.

"Obi-Wan?" The Master's voice was bright with alarm. "Answer me, Obi-Wan."

But there was no wind in him for speech, as it was as if something heavy and pervasive and dense as dark matter had settled over him. Fingers suddenly numb could no longer grip the comm unit, but he was beyond noticing.

There was something out there - something familiar, and cold - and waiting for him.

Taking time only to shrug into the soft leather jacket that Jebbitz had found for him, he moved out into the darkened corridors, his steps unsteady, but determined. 

There was very little light, and he moved from shadow to shadow, mindful of the fact that just because he had not seen any members of the base contingent didn't mean that there were none close by. He paused briefly when he passed by a doorway that stood ajar, revealing banks of monitors, most of which were no longer functioning. It was the security monitor station for the medical bay, and he stepped inside quickly, not entirely sure what he was looking for, until he found it.

Tucked into a unit of labeled cubbyholes, it glinted in the darkness, and it glinted even more brightly when he called it to him.

He tucked his recovered saber into his waistband with trembling fingers. It was like rediscovering an old friend, he thought, as he resumed his journey through the darkened passages, conscious now of a growing vibration, symptomatic of an increasing roar.

When he burst through the wide exterior doorway, he was just in time to see the vast, cumbersome civilian transport vessel settle deeply on its stabilizers in the middle of the public square, and lower its boarding ramps. At the same moment, another doorway burst open, in a building across from the administration center, and a horde of frantic beings rushed forward, like a flood decanted from an uncorked bottle.

The noise level was immediately painful, with shrieks and screams and howls and shouted obscenities, and Obi-Wan went to his knees under the onslaught. But it wasn't the sound that battered him, shrill and painful though it was, it was something else, something of the darkness that had swept over him earlier.

Dimly, in the back of his mind, he was conscious of the attempts of his Master to punch through the mental shields that had, somehow, assembled themselves within his mind, almost without his consent; he was also conscious that Qui-Gon was racing toward him through the labyrinth of the compound at a Force-enhanced pace. It was obvious that the Master knew something was very wrong, but didn't know what.

Which made perfect sense to Obi-Wan, because he didn't know either, despite the fact that - whatever it was - it was practically right in front of him.

He struggled to his feet and moved forward into the outer fringes of the mob that was racing for the transport vessel. And mob was the perfect descriptive word; this was no organized retreat; this was chaos. There were a few pockets of individuals who clung together and aided each other though the pandemonium. Families, obviously. But mostly, it was a classic case of everyone for himself, and Force help those too slow, or too weak, or too lame, or too old, or even just too unlucky, to help themselves.

Despite the throbbing in his head that was growing more intense with every second, Obi-Wan paused in the midst of the surging horde to pick up a child who had fallen to her knees in the melee and would undoubtedly have been trampled without his intercession. The little girl, very blonde, very wide-eyed, and tremendously frightened, clung to her rescuer with the strength of desperation, and he sighed. He couldn't simply set her down; there was no guarantee she wouldn't just fall again. So, with a deep breath, he forced his way into the mob, and managed to reach a spot adjacent to the boarding ramp.

"You!" he shouted, managing (he was fairly confident that the use of a mind trick in such a situation did not constitute abuse of the ability) to attract the attention of one of the ship's crew who was trying to enforce some semblance of order on the boarding process.

"Me?" The crewman didn't looked thrilled to be singled out.

Obi-Wan lifted the child over the ramp railing, and deposited her in the crewman's arms. "Take care of her." Again, just a tiny bit of Force compulsion, but it appeared to be enough.

At last glimpse, the child was safely tucked against the crewman's shoulder, apparently there for the duration.

The young Jedi began to edge away from the ship, back out into the mob, and it struck him again. A sense of darkness so profound it was almost physical, almost like a foul stench that could not be ignored, as if he were at the center of a whirling blackness.

Once more, he went to his knees, and the Force trembled around him, almost crackled with a spike of energy.

Without knowing why, without conscious thought, the crowd parted around him, giving him a wide berth. For a while, he remained unmoving - eyes wide and staring, looking for . . . He hadn't a clue what he was looking for.

The mob surged on all sides of him, men with pale faces and receding hairlines and narrow shoulders hunched, no doubt, from too many years spent huddled over datapads or workbenches or biocontrol panels; women of all ages and types, frantic mothers trying to control or regain control of panicked children, career women with faces gaunt and shadowed by the acid touch of terror, no longer comforted by fashionable haircuts and expensive clothing, young wives, eyes searching constantly, seeking young husbands who were, more than likely, engaged in a fight for survival somewhere beneath the deceptively placid surface of the compound; adolescents with the bravado kicked out of them by the sheer horror of reality; and children. Everywhere - children. Running, crying, lost, terrified - screaming for someone to make it all stop. Just make it stop.

Obi-Wan shuddered, and struggled to rise, unable to bear the waves of panic washing over him any longer. Somehow, he had to make it stop.

Until he saw something, caught one fleeting glimpse of something, and failed to notice that everything else simply ceased to exist, in his mind.

In the crush of the crowd, in the blink of an eye, his lightsaber flared to blinding azure brilliance.

And children screamed as he stalked forward, his path as straight and relentless as that of a quantum torpedo. They leapt to clear out of his way, as their parents shrieked and jumped aside. Adults opened their mouths to demand that he back away; then they saw his eyes, and hastened to back away themselves.

He would never remember stalking through that crowd, but he would always know, somehow, that, whatever it was that drove him at that moment, there was nothing Jedi in it.

It ended abruptly, and in a better way than it very well might have.

Obi-Wan was moving forward very quickly, lightsaber raised and ready, three small children directly in his path, when a strong hand that refused to be denied reached up and wrenched the saber from him, while a strong arm clamped around his upper body, imprisoning his arms at his side.

Still, he did not give up easily.

He was still struggling against his Master's restraining arms, as well as those of Solitaire and Arain Fer'mia, who had joined the fray when it became obvious that Qui-Gon's efforts alone would not be sufficient, when the last of the panicked crowd disappeared into the vessel.

"Padawan!" shouted Qui-Gon. "Stop this immediately."

And, finally, Obi-Wan went limp, allowing himself to collapse in his Master's grasp.

The boarding ramp was closing, and Obi-Wan's eyes were huge as he peered into the dimness within the transport ship.

Later, he would wonder how he had been so sure. It had, after all, been nothing more than a glimpse, a glimpse of a black-lashed eye of sapphire blue, set in a face of pale, pearlescent skin, beneath a sweep of black hair, all carefully swathed with a huge, lace scarf. And beyond all that, a hint of a smile.

It had, he realized, been the smile. Even given the brevity of the contact, and the tentative quality of the expression, he knew he had been right. 

His only regret, in that context, would be that he had been too late.

Otherwise, his composure was shattered almost beyond redemption when he realized that he had almost frightened the life out of a group of very small children, the very beings he had initially sought to protect.

Qui-Gon Jinn didn't think he'd ever be able to forget the abject heartbreak evident in his apprentice's face when the realization of his actions sank in and shocked the boy out of the near fugue state he had been caught in.

"Padawan, answer me." Qui-Gon's voice, though quite loud, seemed to Obi-Wan to be coming from someplace very far away. "What happened? What are you doing out here, and who were you trying to . . ."

Amazingly, Obi-Wan laughed, but there was no joy in it. Instead, it bore traces of desperation, bordering on madness. "The Jedi were wrong," said the apprentice, still chuckling. "They taught us that there's no such thing as a devil. They taught us it was all just superstitious nonsense."

"Padawan . . ."

"They were wrong." The laughter was louder now, more out of control. "The devil lives - there. Right there, on that ship."

The transport vessel lifted off with cumbersome grace, and Obi-Wan continued to laugh as it soared into the first rays of dawn.

***************** ****************** ****************

The Drimulan Resistance fighters and their Jedi compatriots learned a lot in the next eighteen hours. Most of it they would have preferred never to learn at all.

They learned that lab researchers at the military installation had not been idle in their years on Drimula, having developed an entire new generation of shielding technology using the tagmonditurium so readily available, shielding that defied virtually every known type of sensor, up to and including the incredible Force sense of one highly-skilled, but now perpetually-annoyed Jedi Master. Qui-Gon could sense the presence of the command bunker in which the Army's upper echelon had concealed itself, but he could get no sense of direction, or even any notion of how many individuals were secured therein.

They learned that the collapse of the hermetic shielding of the medical facility had a more immediate effect on Obi-Wan than had been predicted. The four vials of blood serum had been administered to him per directions, but his condition had begun to deteriorate almost immediately after each injection, and there were now no more to give him. Though he wanted nothing other than to sit at the youth's side and hold his hand and control his pain through judicious application of Force energy, Qui-Gon had no choice but to continue to assist the efforts of the Resistance army. The threat of the doom's day weapon, still in the possession of the enemy, was very real, and both he and Fer'mia's engineers and associates spent every waking hour, when they weren't aiding in the search for the hidden bunker, in an attempt to find a way to either prevent the launch of the torpedo or nullify its effect, should prevention prove impossible.

Thus, the Ghost had brought down his Pholtchz healer, who had exhausted himself and everyone assigned to work with him, all to no avail. Despite the obvious misgivings of the patient when the healer had arrived, it was quickly obvious to everyone, except said patient, that the Pholtchz was inordinately fond of the young Jedi and would soon drive everyone to distraction in his search for a cure. The notes made by Maleonaka Sirvik concerning his research were, as Qui-Gon had expected, useless; one needed a key to crack the code. But, even had they been able to decrypt the data, Rakoo suggested that it would have been useless to them. In order to have any hope of finding a cure for the disease, they would need samples from both the victim - Obi-Wan - and the person whose blood plasma had been able to provide the treatment - N'Vell Aji. Living samples. It had quickly been determined that samples from the dead body were worthless.

Strangely, during the discussion concerning these observations, Obi-Wan had been silent, listless, uninterested. Or perhaps, not so strangely, for Obi-Wan had begun to withdraw, in an obvious attempt to distance himself from everyone around him. He could not control his responses to the growing agony he was experiencing; his physical weakness would not allow that, but he could - and did - prevent himself from clinging to the bond linking him to his Master. His body weakened at an astonishing rate, but his mental shields were as strong as they had ever been, and Qui-Gon once more had good cause to curse a certain little green troll for teaching the boy entirely too well about such things.

He had also stopped eating - and stopped talking - and his eyes, those luminous eyes so adored by everyone who loved him, had grown pale and vacant.

Obi-Wan was dying, and no one who looked into his face could doubt it.

Obi-Wan was dying, and it was killing his Master.

They also learned during that interminable day that a mercenary army may not have passion and patriotism to fuel its efforts - but it doesn't necessarily need either to function well and continue to join the battle. Sometimes, all it takes is pride and determination. Thus, despite the fact that most of the city had been overrun by the Resistance, there were scattered pockets in which the Drimulan Regular Army continued to fight viciously; several companies had retreated into surrounding forestland and regrouped to form new battle lines, and the battles continued, not only locally, but in many locations around the world.

And, finally, they learned one other thing, the only good thing that happened during those long hours. They learned that it is a fairly simple thing to break - no, not break - to shatter beyond recall, existing speed records for passage between Coruscant and Drimula. All that was required was a one Jedi courier ship equipped with reasonably powerful engines, one small, adamant, determined healer with blood in her eye, a flame in her heart, and the absolute determination that her favorite patient in the entire universe would not die before she could reach him; and one fiercely-loyal, totally-devoted, massively stubborn Jedi padawan, with enough reckless abandon to throw caution to the wind, and take the ship through a series of hyperspace jumps never before attempted by anyone, and totally guaranteed to turn her Master's ebony hair snow white, provided he ever found out about it.

When Mirilent Soljan and Ciara Barosse raced into the medical bay where Obi-Wan lay, pale as clotted cream and floating in a dreamlike stupor courtesy of the narcotic cocktail that flowed constantly into his body via an implanted port, neither one spared a glance for the condition of the facility around them or the identities of the persons standing in their way.

The only individual who failed to simply fade before their onslaught was the Pholtchz. Luckily for him, Mirilent knew who he was, had spoken to him often during the journey out, and was even prepared to admit - grudgingly - that he might have done some good for her Obi; in spite of the fact that she had big issues with his diagnostic methods.

Rakoo wore an expression that was probably meant to be sympathetic, but Ciara thought it looked more like he wanted nothing more than to help himself to a big serving of Obi-on-the-half-shell.

"Obi-Wan," said Mirilent, wrapping his blue-white fingers in the warmth of her hands. "Talk to me, Kiddo. I didn't come half-way across the galaxy for you to ignore me."

He shuddered slightly, before opening his eyes. Mirilent was hard put not to recoil at the emptiness she saw in that gaze that should have been so electrically alive.

"Mira?" His voice was only a hoarse whisper.

"Yes, my love. I'm here. Now, I just need you to hold on for me. We're going to make you better. Ciara's here too."

"Too late," he murmured.

"Don't you say that," said Ciara firmly. "Nothing's too late. Mira's here, and she always makes you better. You know that, Obi-Wan. She always makes you well."

A flicker of awareness in his eyes, and he looked straight into Mirilent's face, and she knew that he was looking into her soul as well. "Hurts, Mira, and it's cold. So cold. I want . . ."

"What, Love?" she said gently. "What do you want?"

"No more." The two words were very clear, and so were his eyes, for just that moment. Then they clouded over again, and he was lost once more in a haze of pain and cold emptiness.

Ciara, unaware apparently of the streams of tears running down her face, turned to look at the healer, wanting reassurance, wanting a miracle. She didn't get one.

"Where's Jinn?" demanded Mira of the medical staff. "I need him here now."

"Can't I help you?" asked Ciara, sounding more than a little lost herself.

"Soon, Hon," replied the healer, "but now, I need his Master. Much as I hate to admit it, no one knows Obi's mind like his Master. I need to get inside his shields, and Qui-Gon is probably the only one who can help me do that."

"Except," said a weary voice from the doorway, "a little green busybody who's half a galaxy away."

Mirilent turned to inspect the new arrival. "Force, Jinn, you look almost as bad as he does."

Qui-Gon moved forward, and drew one gentle hand across Obi-Wan's forehead, brushing back fine spikes of hair. "I'm sure I look worse," he replied, "but I assure you, I'm not. I assumed you'd need my assistance."

"You assumed correctly," she answered and almost left it at that, but, being Mirilent Soljan, she found that she just couldn't, quite. "Assuming, of course, that you can spare the time."

Qui-Gon's midnight eyes rose to meet hers, and she saw that he was so exhausted that her barb had barely registered. "Mira," he said softly, "if it makes you feel better, you can insult me from here to Malastare. I don't care. All I want from you is some indication that you can help him."

Mirilent would later pause to allow herself to be astonished. She couldn't remember anyone ever having succeeded in making her feel remorse for the sharpness of her tongue. But right now, she had no time for such foolishness.

"He doesn't want to be helped," she said softly. "Have you realized that?"

"That's immaterial," he replied firmly.

She drew a deep breath. "Actually, it's not, and you know it. If I determine that he can't survive this . . ."

"He won't go through with it," he insisted. "I know Obi-Wan, and I know what he said to you. He said the same to me. But I'm telling you that he won't go through with it. When you reach him through the bond, as you must, according to Code, he won't."

A monstrous seizure gripped Obi-Wan at that moment, and only the quick actions of those around the bed prevented him from being thrown to the floor, as anguished screams were torn from him. He was only semi-conscious, thanks to the potent effect of the drugs they were pumping into him, and Ciara Barosse decided that she didn't want to know what that moment would have been like had he been completely lucid.

Even Mira, who had seen every conceivable type of disease, along with the most unimaginable types of pain and suffering, in the course of her career, was pale and shaken when the episode ended as abruptly as it began, and the young Jedi fell back against his pillows, lips tinged with blue, body bathed in sweat, and shivering with cold.

Once more, she lifted her eyes to meet those of the Jedi Master. "All right, Master Jinn. I will abide by his decision, but understand this. No one - no one - wants this child to live any more than I do, but, if he is going to die here, in this awful place, and if he asks me to spare him any more of that, then I will honor his wishes. Are we clear on that?"

Qui-Gon found himself unable to meet her eyes, and focused instead on the slenderness of the body lying before him. Obi-Wan had never been brawny, but he had become broad of shoulder as he matured, and well-muscled. The disease was already eroding that aspect of his physique, along with the pale gold of his complexion. He was now slender to the point of fragility and startlingly pale.

"Perfectly, Healer," he replied finally. 

He then turned to lay a comforting hand on Ciara's shoulder, as her tears continued to flow unabated. "Padawan Barosse," he said gently, "I have a task for you. It may be no more than a fool's errand; it may not help at all, but we're approaching a time when desperate measures may be the only measures we have left."

She wiped her eyes, and nodded, glad to have something to do, no matter how desperate the measure might be.

When he explained what he wanted, both she and Mirilent looked unconvinced, but neither could deny that the scenario he had raised might prove to be a possibility, however slim.

As she walked away, to adhere to his instructions, she tried not to see the shallow nature of Obi-Wan's breathing as the Jedi healer, the Pholtchz, and Qui-Gon Jinn all moved forward and bent to their task.

******************** ******************** ********************

In the end, they found it by accident, which, as anyone who's ever fought a war knows, tends to be the way of things, hence the term SNAFU. And it came too late for many, and almost too late for all.

They never would have found it at all if the chief research assistant on the shield development project had not secreted his mistress in a little love nest just outside the secure bunker and decided, at the last minute, that he could not survive without her. The fact that the researcher in question was well into his seventh decade, with a wife known for a propensity for acid commentary exceeded only by the size of her trust fund, and the mistress, a twi'lek exotic dancer barely out of her teens, probably contributed to his final act of desperation.

He came out of hiding to retrieve his treasure, and the ever sharp eyes of Solitaire, Weapons Master, spotted the pair as they made their escape. They had almost made it without detection, almost.

With Captain Fer'mia, Palani, and Qui-Gon Jinn at her heels, Solitaire darted down the narrow passage and blasted through the doorway through which the desperate lovers had disappeared, only to find . . . nothing.

"It's empty," said Fer'mia, disgustedly. "You must have mistaken the door they went through."

"No. I didn't," replied the Weapons Master, trying not to lose what little patience she - or any of them, for that matter - had left. "They came in here."

With something that sounded suspiciously like a snarl, Solitaire hefted her blaster rifle, and fired into the wall directly in front of her and was almost decapitated, as were the rest of them, as the bolt ricocheted violently back and forth, before finally dissipating against the ceiling.

"Will you stop?" shouted Fer'mia. "It's apparently molecularly sealed."

"It's not my fault," she retorted. "It's not like it's marked, or anything." She paused abruptly. "And why would an empty storeroom be molecularly sealed anyway?"

She turned to stare at Qui-Gon Jinn, who stepped forward and stretched out through the Force. He sought to bring all his strength to it, but, in truth, his strength was somewhat depleted, after the session with the healers, and after spending so much time seeking answers over the past few days.

Still, as it happened, it was enough. The residue was faint, due to the shielding, but it was fresh enough to be detectable. 

He pointed to the floor. "It's below us. And let me just take a look . ."

He moved around the perimeter of the barren little room, and finally, on the second circuit, spotted a tiny anomaly in the surface of the back wall, something that might have been no more than a paint bubble, but wasn't. A simple twist of the blemish, and an aperture irised open in the floor, roughly a meter across, leading to a tube of eddying light that descended downwards at a forty-five degree angle.

Solitaire, managing somehow to convey a sense of triumph despite armor and mask, swept one hand toward the opening in an unmistakable 'After you' gesture.

The journey through the column of light was fast and exhilarating, and ended with a thump in a room identical to the one above it. As Solitaire exited the tube, bringing up the rear, the group looked around suspiciously, all initially surprised, and then discomfited, by the absence of posted sentries at the entrance to this secure area.

The Jedi Master took one step toward the doorway, and felt the massive vibration rise from beneath him.

He looked over at Fer'mia, who nodded. "That's a ship, prepping for take-off. A big ship."

They sprinted into the secure bunker, and it was quickly obvious that the defenders had ceased to defend and were making good their escape, as the roar grew ever louder thoughout the area.

The deserted control room was massive, and no one was particularly surprised to learn that they had all been under constant surveillance since the moment of their arrival. Monitor screens were still mostly active, and they noted views of almost every part of the base, including the center of the public square, and the interior of a massive launch bay, where a number of smaller craft were already lifting into the air, and several others were obviously only waiting their turn.

And then there was one other screen, remarkable only for the strobing red light that flashed repeatedly on the massive mechanism laid out below the camera.

Qui-Gon Jinn wasted no time on explanations, but moved directly to the control panels and began to try to avert disaster.

He gestured toward the screen displaying the launch bay, and spoke to Fer'mia. "Try to find the way in there. It must be nearby. Someone just started this sequence, moments ago."

The Captain followed the Jedi's gaze to note a countdown indicator below the red-strobed viewscreen. It read six minutes - and counting.

"They launched it, didn't they?" he demanded.

Jinn only nodded, his hands a blur against the control panels. "And I'm trying to stop it. You see if you can stop them."

The Drimulan nodded and raced off down the corridor, looking for the entrance to the launch bay that he knew must be close at hand.

When Solitaire moved to follow her captain, the Jedi called her back.

"Contact the medical bay," he directed, "and have them take Obi-Wan to the ship."

There was no need to specify which ship, as the _Morning Angel_ had just settled gently into the center of the public square, with Ciara Barosse peering anxiously through the canopy.

Once the call was made and acknowledged, the Weapons Master turned back to observe the efforts of the Jedi, and read, correctly, frustration in his eyes.

"It's not working, is it?"

"No," he admitted, "and I can't access the control signals through the Force. Apparently, it's all shielded with this new technology."

She nodded. "So that's it, then?"

He looked up and stared once more at the screen blinking so ominously, and she saw inspiration strike. "Maybe not," he answered, "if we can get in there."

A shout from deeper in the complex indicated that Fer'mia and Palani had located the entrance to the launch bay, and Qui-Gon and Solitaire raced out of the control room and down the corridor.

"What can you do if you can't prevent the launch?" Solitaire demanded as they pounded through the passageway.

"I can lock it down," he answered firmly.

"I don't understand," she said. "How can you . . ."

"Basically," he explained, "this weapon is affixed to a huge drill head, which is meant to bore through the planet's crust, down through various layers of mantle, and penetrate the tagmonditurium layer at optimum depth, which is fairly deep in this particular location. According to the control data, it will take seven minutes from the time it's launched, to reach that depth, where the warhead will be triggered. If I can lock the drill head in place, long enough to prevent it reaching the mineral . . ."

She nodded. "Then it doesn't contaminate the mineral. It's just a big explosion."

"Still pretty substantial," he admitted. "It'll still take out this whole installation and several square kilometers around it, but it won't destroy a world."

As they reached the passage that led into the launch bay, the Weapons Master paused, directly in the Jedi's path, and forced him to pause with her or run her down. He chose to pause, but not with very good grace.

"He never stopped loving you," she said, sounding much less electronic than usual. "I thought you might want to know that, before . . ."

He smiled. "Thank you, Solitaire. For me, and for him."

****************** ******************* ****************

He had watched as long as he dared, had watched even after telling himself that he shouldn't, that it was serving no useful purpose.

He had forced himself to go elsewhere, to get away from the monitors, to seek solace in food, in drink, in the willing flesh of one of the higher-echelon prostitutes provided by the consortia, even in the study of his crystal construct.

Nothing had been suitably distracting.

He went back and watched more.

And saw the first real indications of the disease; saw the soft, golden skin flush with the roseate glow of rising fever, then pale abruptly with the onslaught of pain; saw the thrashing limbs and clutched abdomen as blinding cramps had set in; saw the impossible twist of the spine as the seizures progressed; heard the soft cultured voice deteriorate into hoarse screams, then finally fade into faint moans that were somehow more touching than the screams had been.

And heard finally what he had been sure he would hear; heard that really quite lovely voice beg for death; heard the litany, "Kill me please. Just kill me."

Over and over and over again.

It had stopped just shortly before he had been forced to give up his vantage point. Apparently, the boy had no more breath with which to beg.

He stood looking up the boarding ramp that led into the belly of N'Vell's lovely little yacht, a yacht that now, he supposed, belonged to him, although Brath Ozvey had, for the moment, commandeered it for his own use.

Sirvik sighed. It was time to put this tawdry little episode behind him; it was time to begin a new life, a contemplative life, perhaps. He had had enough, he thought, of grand passion.

He heard the shouts behind him just as he started up the ramp, and he recognized one of the voices immediately. One did not keep constant company with one who lived and breathed hatred on a daily basis without becoming intimately acquainted with its object.

He turned and grabbed for a handhold as the yacht lifted from the surface and saw Qui-Gon Jinn racing toward him, his face dark with anger and something that might have been impotence.

He didn't stop to think; later, he would tell himself he had been a perfect fool. And he would never quite understand why he acted as he did.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out the tiny glass vial, and hurled it out toward the Jedi Master.

"It will kill the virus," he shouted, not certain even Jedi hearing would be able to pick out his words from the background roar. "Whether or not it will kill him as well . . . remains to be seen."

He ducked through the hatch, and the elegant little ship rocketed out through a rippling forcefield.

Simultaneously, with an effort worthy of a galaxy-class gymnast, the Jedi Master leapt forward and snagged the vial out of the air, just before it smashed against the plascrete floor.

He swallowed hard as he landed heavily on his side, instinctively clasping the vial to his chest.

The cure. He had the cure - maybe. Or, maybe, all he had was a vial full of death for his Padawan.

And, maybe, none of them would ever even get the opportunity to find out.

Time, inexorable as always, moved forward, edging them toward one form of disaster or another - and daring him to choose.

****************** ******************** *****************  
tbc


	35. Against the Wind

Chapter 35: Against the Wind

_Yet, Freedom! Yet thy banner, torn, but flying,  
Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind._

\- _Child Harold's Pilgrimage_ -. George Gordon, Lord Byron

 

The rumble beneath the hilltop city grew steadily, until it became impossible to be heard over the roar, and the vibration grew apace. It was only a matter of moments before the structural integrity of the entire complex became unstable, and it was obvious that collapse was imminent. Vicious gusts of cyclonic wind whirled around the surface buildings, and gigantic flumes of dust boiled skyward, and stones as large as speeder bikes shifted from sand-drifted positions they had occupied since time out of mind, and rolled across open areas as lightly as if they had been seed pods. Several, in fact, ventured toward the graceful, dust-blasted silhouette of the _Morning Angel_ , only to be turned away by her immaculate shielding.

In the medical clinic, Mirilent Soljan spared no time for contemplation, once she had received the comm signal from Solitaire. There appeared to be no opportunity to wait for niceties like anti-grav stretchers or medical orderlies. Mirilent grabbed one arm and Rakoo grabbed the other, each disconnecting various tubes and lines attached to their patient's body, and they tore out of the building with Obi-Wan, mercifully unconscious, dragging between them. 

When Qui-Gon Jinn had postulated that this semi-sentient vessel, sitting now in the middle of the public square, might be able to find a means of defeating the vicious disease that was racing so relentlessly through Obi-Wan's system, Mira had considered suggesting that he had finally taken that last step into senility that she had been expecting for years. 

She still thought the same, but she was pretty much out of options. It was time to play the Jedi Master's wild card, not to mention get the devil out of the mayhem that was erupting around them.

Mirilent had a justified reputation as a tremendously gifted healer, but she knew her limitations, as every good healer did. The disease that was running rampant now through Obi-Wan's body was beyond her ability to defeat; it clung to him like a hungry lover, and adapted itself easily to circumvent every effort she made.

She - and he - had perhaps won a few minor skirmishes, but they were losing the war. She had already had cause to be tremendously grateful for two small miracles on this endless day, but she knew it was folly to expect them to continue.

The first had occurred when she had decided, reluctantly, to remove the slave tag that had been implanted at the base of Obi-Wan's skull. Despite the gravity of his condition, she judged that delay would be more costly than taking the calculated risk, as a Force-enhanced probe had confirmed that the tag's behavior control function was growing at an exponential rate as the super-fine filaments that connected it to the victim's intellectual centers engaged in an explosion of growth that would soon overwhelm Obi-Wan's ability to resist. If she did not remove it immediately, it would continue to insinuate itself intimately into ganglia, and nerve endings, and brain tissue, and it would very soon be impossible to remove it at all without destroying the brain functions it had invaded.

So she had proceeded to remove the vile device, and watched him die under her laser scalpel. She had been able to resuscitate him almost immediately, but it had shaken her badly.

Two hours later, it had happened again, and, the second time, it had been much harder to bring him back, particularly in light of the fact that he had spent much of the preceding hour begging to be allowed to die, begging for surcease from a pain that she could not ease, as the only drugs which might have provided some relief for him, would almost certainly have depressed his vital functions so severely that he would not survive.

Mira had held him cradled against her shoulder and begged him to forgive her for forcing him to return from the peaceful darkness that stood ready to receive him and grant him the oblivion he sought.

The look in his eyes had broken her heart.

It was time, now, to find out if there really were miracles to be had for the asking.

The trip to the waiting ship was blessedly short, but not without its share of hazards, as the footing beneath them began to buck wildly, building up to a monstrous upheaval as a huge wave of sound erupted from deep beneath the surface. Then there were the stones bouncing around them, that seemed to be growing larger and more prolific with each passing moment.

When they were finally able to race up the boarding ramp of the sleekly designed alien ship, it was with a decided sigh of relief, and they were tremendously grateful when Ciara wasted no time getting them into the air. As it happened, however, and as they learned later, Ciara, in fact, had little to do with it. The _Angel,_ as it was wont to do, had acted independently, and, even though engineers and scientists who would later examine all records and data concerning the vessel and its semi-sentient control matrix would ridicule her contention as romantic drivel, Ciara knew what she knew. The ship had known, somehow, the instant that Obi-Wan was aboard; had known that remaining on the surface constituted a danger to him and had acted accordingly.

No hyperdrive expert or ship's designer had ever conceded that her belief was even remotely possible, but there were those among the Jedi who, though mute on the subject, never disputed her opinion.

Besides, the ship would shortly prove just how close to true sentience it was, even though nobody who wasn't there to see it would ever believe _that_ either.

Though small, the _Angel_ 's sickbay was impressive, and became more so when Obi-Wan was placed in the diagnostic bio-bed. At that moment, both healers were simply pushed aside, as the onboard diagnostic program activated and performed all the functions the physicians would ordinarily have taken upon themselves. The ship, however, was perfectly capable of handling all of these tasks simultaneously, and at a pace that made Mira almost salivate with envy.

Nevertheless, she was still Mirilent Soljan, and she ceded control over her favorite patient to no one, not even a phenomenally perceptive ship that apparently loved him almost as much as she did. Ruthlessly, she waded into the thick of the action, mumbling the entire time, and no one could have discerned whether or not she was speaking to the ship or to herself.

Things actually approached critical mass, for both healer and bio-unit, as the ship clawed for altitude through an atmosphere now thick with particulate debris. As sampling stylets, far finer than human hair and thus, completely painless and bloodless, withdrew from various positions on Obi-Wan's body, an infusion device extruded from a treatment panel and moved toward the port access on the young Jedi's throat.

Mirilent was there first, barely, and intercepted the device, only to find herself tossed away from the bio-bed by an energy field that, in addition to nudging her aside, managed to administer a stinging electrical shock in the process.

It was roughly equivalent to waving a red flag in front of a nerf bull, or it would have been, if a rather remarkable thing had not happened at that exact moment.

They would later attribute it to his strength in the Force and his connection to his Master; some believed that the ship's monitors fed information directly into his consciousness; some simply said it was instinct, or luck.

Some would simply dismiss it as a 'Jedi' thing, and some would call it a miracle, for, given his condition, it was not possible for him to have known, to have sensed what was happening below them, on the planet's surface. Nevertheless, he _did_ know, however impossible it might have been.

In the final analysis, it was all just guesswork, for no one would ever know for sure. Not even Obi-Wan himself could have said how or why he chose that moment to awaken, and to reach out and take control of a situation that was already almost beyond redemption.

************** ********************* ********************

The launch bay would soon be nothing more than a pile of rubble, under the seismic shudders that rocked it continuously now, and several of the smaller vessels that had been secluded therein would never again attain the unfettered freedom of space flight, as massive chunks of debris from the ceiling had smashed them into bizarre caricatures of their original configurations. Accordingly, base personnel stranded by these developments scurried about in panic, seeking alternative transport.

There was none.

But for one particular individual, the fact that there were no alternatives was simply unacceptable. It was enormously difficult to simply turn away from the drama unfolding deep within the bay and search for a way out, and not just any way out, but one that would allow egress in a matter of a few short minutes. Otherwise, there was no point in running, and death would take not only the runner, but the one to whom she was running.

Solitaire moved faster than she had ever moved in her life and forbade herself to look back.

The giant drill which would propel the massive torpedo into the depths of Drimula, in order to initiate a chain reaction that would decimate most of the planet's land surface, had been freed from its permanent moorings by an explosive charge of respectable magnitude, which had begun the demolition of the bay, but the rising level of destruction was not due to any further function of the weapon. In fact, rather the opposite.

The enclosure which had housed the weapon was located at the deepest point of the massive cavern, the most secure point, and consisted of a plascrete silo with walls almost a meter thick, cast tidurium supports reinforcing the heavy surface, and forming a semi-detached cradle which served to position and direct the mammoth drill, and a base composed of a dense, drebendium alloy, bisected by huge, retracting double doors designed to release the cradle from its housing and allow the drill to be guided into the sub-level of the installation, where a relatively short tunnel ended at a layer of subsoil, easily penetrable by any reasonably efficient drill.

The gigantic drill carrying the torpedo was very efficient indeed.

And it was eager to be on its way, straining and shuddering in its efforts to plunge into the depths, ravenous to devour the barriers that kept it from its appointed target, the massive engine that powered it roaring its frustration.

What held it motionless appeared ridiculously inadequate to do so.

The doors at the base of the weapon were secured with a simple interlocking system of cogs and ridges, which should have released immediately once the moorings were retracted.

But the locks remained engaged, for the moment.

Arain Fer'mia hardly dared to breathe, even though he knew that his presence had absolutely no effect on the Jedi Master or his efforts. In point of fact, Qui-Gon had urged the Drimulan to run, to save himself, to yield to the logic of the fact that he served no useful purpose by remaining at the Jedi's side.

Which was completely true.

He had remained, nonetheless, charging Solitaire and Palani Vau-Bremayne with the responsibility for delivering the precious vial that might save the life of Obi-Wan Kenobi, even though he had little hope that they would make it in time.

The Jedi had managed to hold the doors firmly closed for almost three minutes now, but the end was approaching rapidly. And the torpedo would set off a gargantuan explosion in just over four minutes, no matter how deeply it had driven into the surface.

At that point it would matter little whether they were still here in this crumbling installation or standing on the surface above. They were still dead, and so, more than likely, was young Kenobi.

Fer'mia spared a moment to regret that the boy would face such an excruciating death; he should have been spared that much, at least, and the captain wondered for a moment if it wouldn't have been kinder to simply leave the young Jedi in his hospital bed in the city above, rather than have him transferred to the _Angel_ , where he would live out the remainder of his short life in dark, relentless agony. But it was too late for such regrets, and there was nothing more the Drimulan could do for him.

Qui-Gon was trembling now, like a leaf in a high wind, and bathed in sweat, brow clenched in concentration, and there was a sound deep within his throat that was almost a growl. A sound that swelled abruptly to become a hoarse shout, torn from a raw throat.

And the doors flew open at last, while the drill shot downward to bite into the waiting subsoil.

"Enough?" asked Fer'mia, and was surprised when his voice sounded loud in the semi-stillness which had now gripped the huge bay.

Qui-Gon sighed. "It will have to be, won't it? Didn't I tell you to leave?"

The Drimulan grinned. "I don't take orders very well, I'm afraid. Should we run, do you think?"

Qui-Gon turned and spotted the brightness of sky and foliage visible through the launch doors. "Pointless, I'd say, but I would prefer the last thing I ever see to be something other than this squalid little disaster area. Shall we?"

In the grip of a strange but rather wonderful serenity, the two who had been antagonists but had found themselves, finally, to be reluctant allies walked toward the light, as the great drill dug its way into the planet's crust, the torpedo counting off the seconds with inexorable precision.

They reached the exit with less a minute to spare and settled themselves on a lip of stone at the side of the bay doors, where bright coins of sunlight swirled and danced in a capricious wind that grew steadily stronger.

Til the day he died, he would never admit to being surprised by what happened next, but Mirilent Soljan knew better, as she watched Qui-Gon Jinn's mouth drop open when the _Morning Angel_ plunged into the deep, weathered ravine which had concealed the existence of the launch bay, and hovered within leaping distance of the tiny ledge where the Jedi and the Drimulan stood with eyes bulging.

"Well, don't just stand there," the healer shouted, just as there was a tremendous concussion of sound and force in the vast bay behind them. "Jump!"

Their feet had barely skimmed the surface of the lowered boarding ramp before the beautiful ship was streaking skyward, pandemonium erupting behind her, extending greedy fingers to attempt to pull her from her soaring flight.

"Solitaire?" asked Qui-Gon, eyes begging Mira to assure him that the chaos behind them had not consumed the only hope for his padawan's recovery.

"Right here," came the response from behind him, and he turned to see that both she and Palani were safe enough, if somewhat the worse for wear. Her helmet was cracked and useless, and he noted a quality of irritation in her expression, but she clutched the intact vial of vaccine triumphantly. "Trust me," she said, "you haven't lived until you've been roped and jerked off a mountain trail by a ship moving at something close to the speed of sound."

Arain Fer'mia looked down on the ugly darkness now consuming the installation below them, and sighed. "Maybe you'll feel better if you take a look at the alternative."

As soldiers and citizens of a galaxy that had certainly seen its share of wars and desolation, none of them were strangers to acts of mass destruction, but no true sentient ever managed to develop a blasé attitude toward such acts, and Qui-Gon Jinn knew a moment of satisfaction that this should be so. To become inured to such acts made them thinkable, acceptable; a condition devoutly to be avoided.

On the surface beneath them, what had once been a charming hill-top city, gazing down on lakes and rivers and valleys and meadows of unsurpassing loveliness, would now be nothing more than a twisted crater, a mangled scar on the busom of a world once pristine and blessed with the bounty of nature.

And it might also be much more. At this particular moment in time, the city was poised on the lip of two mutually exclusive destinies. It would either be heralded and eulogized as the place in which the spirit of free men rose up and took a stand to defy the forces of evil, and, in the process, recaptured a world; or it would be hallowed as the flashpoint which had triggered the final holocaust, the one that would ultimately render Drimula a barren, ugly, polluted wasteland, that would require decades to reclaim from the poison of its environment, if indeed it could ever be reclaimed at all.

And there was no way to be certain which truth would prove to be the ultimate truth, not for some time yet. The planet was currently enveloped in chaos, both politically and physically, and the only equipment capable of monitoring the tagmonditurium deposits, and determining what was happening within them, belonged to the mining consortium, which was now conspicuously absent from its various posts. The facilities abandoned by the Consortia would, of course, now fall under the control of the Drimulan people, but it would be an ongoing process, requiring much time and massive reorganization.

In a word, though the consortium was, thankfully, gone, and the mindless puppets who had formed the Triumvirate, the provisional rulers of the planet, were also gone, there was no hierarchy in place to move into the void they had left behind, and it would be some time before order could make any headway in deflecting chaos. And it would certainly not make things any easier when the population learned that the majority of the planet's treasury had absconded in the company of its power brokers.

So there was no way to be sure if Master Qui-Gon's desperate measure had worked.

Except that sometimes, very, very rarely, the Force decided, for reasons of its own, to speak to those who served it.

Qui-Gon stood gazing down on the pandemonium still expanding below them and smiled.

The Force was being succinct today.

_Well done._

It seemed to think that remark would suffice.

The _Morning Angel_ twisted and plunged abruptly, swooping beneath a sudden cross current thick with heavy particles, and everyone except Solitaire, who was firmly anchored against a bulkhead, staggered and grabbed for a handhold. At virtually the same moment, Ciara Barosse came racing into the cabin, and grabbed Mirilent Soljan with claw-like fingers.

"You've got to come," she snapped, "right now."

"Wait a minute," said Qui-Gon sharply, his eyes leaping to the view outside the nearest port, a view that attested to the erratic, completely random course being flown by the Angel, a course no auto-pilot could have initiated. "If you're out here, then who . . ."

Mirilent Soljan gave him a look that left absolutely no doubt about her opinion of his IQ.

"No," he breathed. "It can't be."

Ciara nodded emphatically. "Can and is, and you better get down on your knees every day for a month and thank him for your life, because this ship was _not_ going to come get you, for me."

The Master started for the cockpit. "I'll do that, right after I finish beating the mischief out of him."

What he found when he went through the hatch stopped him cold in his tracks and made his breath seize up in his chest.

Obi-Wan was as pale as bleached linen, with a bluish caste around his lips; his eyes were brilliant with the glitter of fever, and his body was rigid with pain, while his limbs trembled as if with a palsy. But his hands, within the glow of the Angel's control field, were absolutely steady. It was apparent that he had little notion of where he was, or what he was doing, but he clung to his contact with the ship with the last ounce of awareness within him.

Raw determination held him in place and enabled him to maintain his link with the ship's mind; it was obvious that he had nothing else left.

"Obi-Wan." For a moment, the Master wondered if the boy still had the capacity to hear him, but his reaction, while slow in coming, was quite gratifying.

The padawan stood, and pulled his hands from the interface chamber and smiled.

"Master," he breathed, and somewhere deep inside him, in the last bastion of rational thought, something suggested that that just might be the last word he ever spoke, and something else suggested that, if it should prove to be so, it would only be fitting.

He tumbled forward then into Qui-Gon's arms, and the Master would later take a moment to be amazed that the _Angel_ exercised unusual restraint in not zapping him for daring to touch her master.

As he tore into sickbay, Mirilent Soljan was reaching for the infuser which Rakoo had loaded with the contents of the tiny vial provided by Maleonaka Sirvik, and racing after him.

Simultaneously, in her customary inimitable fashion, meaning with absolutely no finesse, the _Angel_ manipulated her internal force fields and rudely snagged Ciara and deposited her back into the pilot's seat for the remainder of the journey.

When Qui-Gon laid Obi-Wan on the bio-bed in the medical bay, a number of events happened immediately. A new set of panels, arranged in a semi-circle around the bed, activated, as a web of tiny filaments, finer than silk fiber, was extruded from small openings placed equidistantly around the bed's frame and proceeded to mold themselves to the contours of Obi-Wan's body. And, when Mirilent Soljan stepped forward, infuser in hand, to administer the vaccine, there was a brief surge of light that swept through the entire ship and a barrier was suddenly present around Obi-Wan's body, a barrier that shimmered and seemed almost to breathe, a barrier that would prove to be completely unbreachable. The healer pushed against the shield in desperation, the potion that might restore the padawan's life clutched in her fingers, reaching for his flesh, fighting the resistance that barred her way. But her efforts were, in the end, futile, her reach, too short; her strength, unequal to the task. Death would come to Obi-Wan by a matter of inches, a gap of seconds - eternity, in a handspan.

Mirilent, in a moment of impotent rage, threw herself across the faint distortion of the field, in a final attempt to break through, but it served no useful purpose, except perhaps to release some of her frustration.

Suddenly, a dark, flexible tube, rimed with a bluish frost, detached itself from a coupling affixed to the diagnostic panel, and shot forward to form a seal with a connector set into the framework of the bio-bed. And a cloud-like mist - the purplish shade of mountain violets, glowing slightly, began to swirl within the barrier.

As the bands of color began to settle around him, Obi-Wan convulsed - once, twice - and then was deathly still.

"He's not breathing," snapped Arain Fer'mia. "What did it do to him? He's not breathing."

As the healers and the Drimulan engaged in a desperate dialog, looking for ways to circumvent the force field, Qui-Gon Jinn simply stared as dark mists obscured the face of his padawan.

Then he went to his knees, without a sound, and the others simply stared, each stricken in his own way.

For just the briefest of moments, he had felt the bond between them - the self-same bond that he, in his monumental foolishness, had so callously and cruelly severed, and had only just begun to rebuild - he had felt a pulse of warmth within it, like a faint sigh, carrying a wordless benediction.

Then he felt it flicker and grow dim.

And now it was cold and dark and empty, and Obi-Wan was gone.

*************** ************** ******************* 

The Ghost sat at his desk and stared out into the magnificence of the starscape with unseeing eyes.

Drimula was a moonlit disk of cloud-kissed darkness below him, and he raised his glass in tribute.

Three days since the turning point. Three days: a moment in time, or an eternity, depending on one's point of view.

He wanted to be able to participate in the celebration that was in progress now down on the planet. He wanted to be able to laugh and rejoice and revel in the defeat of those who had plundered his world. He wanted to join in the ceremonies that would mark the end of one era and the beginning of another.

Though there were still pockets of isolated resistance, small battles that might rage for some time yet, the war itself had foundered on the arrogant certainties of its tyrants, that none would rise up to dispute their divine right to continue to destroy a world in the name of profit.

Fer'mia sighed and reflected that the tyrants had very nearly been proven right. Would have been right, if not for the actions of one very brave, very generous young man, who was willing to give all he had, to protect those who had nothing.

If ever a world had been saved from extinction by a single act which shamed its natives into fighting for themselves, it was this one.

And he really wanted to congratulate his comrades on the courage they had found to finally stand up as one, and refuse to be ruled by fear any longer.

The road ahead was still very long and filled with pitfalls. Of that he had no doubt. Like humans across the galaxy, the Drimulans would develop their own squabbles to fill the void of hostility left by the departing consortium. There would be years of disputes between those who had collaborated with the plunderers, and those who had refused to do so, and stories would be told and retold, through long generations, until, in the end, no one would remember who had been part of what, but, in the interim, blood would almost certainly be shed, probably several times, before the bitterness and recriminations were allowed to blur into the anonymity of history.

But the sweet triumph of knowing that, however bleak or uncertain it might be, Drimula would have a future was ample cause for rejoicing. And the fact that it would once more exist under the guidance of its native sons and daughters, the few, that was, who had survived.

The galactic news services proclaimed that the conflict was all over, except for the victory celebrations, in the wake of the revelations presented to the Senate and to the news media, by the Jedi.

The galaxy, on the face of things, had been outraged, and the Senate had acted quickly to attach itself to the "cause of the day", as Master Qui-Gon had termed it.

Which had been Fer'mia's first clue that the Jedi Master tended to view developing events in a slightly different light.

The Ghost had never been greatly disturbed by cynicism; he recognized the trait within himself often enough. But he had been startled, and slightly discomfited, to hear its faintly acerbic irony color the Jedi Master's narrative.

"It isn't really public opinion that's forced them to act," he had explained to the Captain, in a voice without tone or inflection. "It's the opinion of those who fund their campaigns, most of whom accrue their wealth through any number of sources, most of which would not bear close scrutiny.

"This isn't about outrage at the treatment of innocent bystanders or the systematic rape of an entire world. Oh, no, Captain, this is about greed and jealousy, and the only outrage they feel is in the fact that they weren't invited to share in such a profitable venture. That the consortium was able to circumvent regulations and violate business codes with impunity, while they, superior beings that they are, are forced to pay lip service to all these ridiculous laws, enacted by bleeding hearts who want nothing more than to interfere with a rich man's right to get richer . . ."

Qui-Gon had paused abruptly, in the realization that he was coming dangerously close to making a political statement, something Jedi tended to avoid whenever possible.

He smiled. "The consortium will be punished through the only means that they understand, and the only one that will have any real effect: money. Trade sanctions, fines, shipping tariffs - all done in an extremely civilized manner, of course, and all no more than a pittance compared to the profits they took from this world. But appearances will be served, and Drimula will reap the benefit of being the fashionable cause of the season. Just be sure to caution your people that such celebrity is extremely fleeting. A year from now, they won't remember who you are or why you should think they would possibly have any interest in hearing your opinions, about anything."

Fer'mia had regarded the Jedi solemnly.

"And these are the people served by the Jedi? How can that be?"

"The Jedi serve the Force, Captain," replied Qui-Gon easily, still somewhat absent-minded. "The Senate and the Republic simply provide a command structure, if you will. We cannot be all things to all people; we are too few."

The Ghost had nodded, obviously still bemused. "You will pardon me," he had said, finally, "if I find it disturbing that even the Jedi cannot grant unqualified respect to the body that is supposed to represent the ideals of the Republic?"

The Master's smile had been bittersweet. "The ideals themselves are worthy of the respect of us all; it's the guardians of the ideals who fall short."

Arain Fer'mia had nodded, but had not been comforted. 

Drimula would shortly be proposed for membership in the Republic. It had been the dream of men like Rain's father - and his uncle - for many, many years.

Now, the Captain, whose word, as a hero of the resistance - a term that made him profoundly uncomfortable - would carry great weight, was no longer entirely sanguine with the idea of membership in a body so large that it seemed incapable of controlling all its appendages.

But he didn't want to think about that tonight: he wanted to be able to join in the mindless fun.

He wanted to feel like celebrating.

But, most of all, at this particular moment, he wanted to get thoroughly, royally, falling-down, sloppy drunk.

And he found that he didn't want to do it alone.

So maybe he really did want to take himself down to the surface and lose himself in the magic of the moment, in street dances and vats of dark wine, in willing arms and limpid eyes and lips tasting of honey. It would all be very easy, very available. Maybe.

He grinned when he stopped to realize that maybe he just didn't have any idea what he really wanted.

But, immediately, he knew that was wrong. He did know exactly what he wanted. Just as he knew it was the one thing he could not have.

He could not simply make a wish and have Obi-Wan Kenobi awaken in his shielded coffin and step back into the life he'd left behind.

Heaving a deep, ragged breath, he stood, tossed the brandy bottle he had just emptied into the recycler, and retrieved a fresh one from his private stock, before stepping into the corridor.

As captain of his own vessel, he would have been within his rights to insist that any member of his crew join him in his quest to get soused, excepting the fact that he had given most of them shore leave, to join the celebrations on the surface. Still, there were a few on board, and any one of them would have joined him, without question.

The problem was that he wasn't going to feel any better drinking with them, than he felt already.

What he needed was to get drunk in the presence of someone with more reasons to be miserable than he had, and he only spent a fleeting second wondering if that sentiment made any sense at all.

There was really only one person on board who fit that description, although there were several who would probably have matched the depth of the Captain's misery.

The corridors of the great ship were virtually deserted, and, given that it was the middle of nightwatch, all was quiet and dim.

When he approached the shuttle bay, he paused for a moment, and even debated if he should just turn around and find an empty bunk in which to sleep off what he had already drunk, which was a not inconsiderable amount. But he was still entirely too sober, and he knew sleep would not come easily tonight, if it came at all.

As it undoubtedly wouldn't come for the man he proposed to entice into sharing his drunkenness.

The great bay was dark, except for mooring lights glowing softly against the hull of the _Morning Angel_. All the other berths were empty, having been used to transport the crew planetside, to join the revels.

Shadows were thick around the perimeter of the bay, but the Captain's steps never faltered. He knew where to find the Jedi; it was the same exact spot that he himself would choose to inhabit if he were sitting vigil in this cold, echoing chamber.

There was only one functional airlock in the vast bay, and, beside it, for the convenience of the lock operator, there was an alcove containing a few control panels, a couple of storage lockers, and a tall, thin viewport.

Qui-Gon Jinn was a silhouette against the spangled splendor beyond the port.

"Am I disturbing you?" asked Fer'mia softly. Despite the fact that the animosity which had existed between them at their first contact had dispersed and been replaced by a subdued mutual respect, there was still a residual wariness between them that resulted in a level of formality that sometimes bordered on the ludicrous.

"No, Captain," replied Qui-Gon. "I don't seem to be able . . . No, you're not disturbing me at all. I welcome the company."

Fer'mia nodded and leaned against the bulkhead beside the port, allowing himself to slide bonelessly to the deck. If there was a slight quality of amusement in the look the Jedi leveled at him, the Drimulan chose to ignore it, as he took a healthy swig from the brandy bottle, before passing it to the Master.

"Bottoms up, Master Jedi." Somehow, the Captain was fairly certain the proffered drink would not be refused. He was correct.

"They still in there?" asked the Drimulan, accepting the return of the brandy.

"Yes."

They settled then into comfortable silence. There was, after all, really nothing left to say.

After a time, their quiet circle opened to welcome a third member.

Solitaire entered without a word and also without her helmet, which was a first for her. But, since most of the crew were off the ship, and since it was virtually the middle of the night, she had decided to dispense with the disguise, for the moment. Besides, she had reasoned, with perfect logic, she could not very well drink herself into a stupor if she were locked up in that airtight mask.

Arain Fer'mia had always known, of course; she found that she was less surprised by that fact than she should have been. He had never, however, actually seen her face before, and she was pleased somehow to note that he seemed to take some small comfort in letting his eyes linger on her features.

Still, despite observing to himself that she was very damned pretty to be a weapons master, he said nothing, and neither did she. And the bottle continued to make its way around the circle.

Finally, as the brandy level steadily declined, the silence seemed to grow a bit heavy.

"Master Jinn," said the Captain, finally, "may I ask you a question?"

"Of course." The rich, deep baritone seemed hollow somehow, as if the intellect that drove it was, for the moment, out to lunch.

"Back in the medical bay," said Fer'mia, choosing his words with exaggerated care, "when he was . . . when that woman was taunting him, after she killed Jeb . . ."

Qui-Gon said nothing - merely waited - and Fer'mia felt a faint twinge of annoyance. It seemed almost arrogant for the Jedi to display no curiosity about where he was going with his question.

"Obi-Wan wanted to kill her. Didn't he?"

On hearing his padawan's name, there was just the slightest quiver around the Jedi's mouth, so slight that most people would have missed it, but neither Fer'mia nor Solitaire could be classified as 'most people'.

"Yes. He did." Now the overriding emotion in that deep voice was exhaustion.

"What if he had?" The Captain was genuinely curious; this was not an idle question.

Qui-Gon's eyes were lost in deep shadow. "Eventually, it would have destroyed him, if he had gone through with it."

Fer'mia nodded. "You could have stopped him, but you didn't."

"No. Instead, you did. The two of you."

Fer'mia paused to take a long draught of brandy. "I don't get it. You knew that, if he wasn't stopped, killing her would destroy him. But you . . ."

Qui-Gon smiled gently. The tone of accusation in the Captain's voice was extremely faint, but, for a Master intimately in tune with the Living Force, it was a clarion call. "You believe that you spared him, by taking away the choice. Is that correct?"

Both Fer'mia and Solitaire nodded.

The Master regarded them both solemnly, as if debating his answer. "By sparing him that decision," he said finally, "you took away his ability to know what he would have done."

"Say what?" Fer'mia was obviously not impressed.

Qui-Gon sighed. "He would never be entirely sure what he might have done, and, one day, that uncertainty could have made him hesitate, made him question a choice that must be made in a split second. I understand why you felt you had to do what you did, but, in the end, you didn't do him a favor."

"But if he had killed her . . ."

"He wouldn't have." The tone was filled with absolute certainty now.

"How can you know that? After what she did - to him, and to Jeb? How can you be so sure?"

Qui-Gon Jinn turned to look out into the radiance of the stars, which were reflected in the dark depths of his eyes. "He . . ." He simply could not bring himself to use the past tense "He is my Obi-Wan, and I know what he would have done. For him to have allowed himself to turn his back on everything he's ever been taught, it just wasn't possible."

He was stricken abruptly by a cruel thought, and knew he had cause to be grateful for the fact that neither of his companions reminded him that his lack of such faith in his padawan was what had brought them all to this dreary place, and this sad, useless vigil.

 

*************** ******************* ****************

 

The next visitor to their dark little circle did not come for silence; she came to speak, and none of them had the heart to deny her the opportunity she so obviously needed, the opportunity to share her narrative, to answer questions as yet unasked, to purge her soul.

Ciara's initial approach was timid and tentative, but, of course, she knew that she could never hope to sneak up on Master Jinn. He had noticed her at once as she moved into the huge bay, and gestured for her to join them.

When she sank to her knees, he noted that she was shivering slightly, and he simply reached out and pulled her to his side, where he wrapped a layer of his cloak around her. She seemed eager and unembarrassed, finally, to nestle into his presence, and he was reminded anew of just how young and vulnerable she was - _they_ were. Ciara and Obi, both standing on the cusp of maturity, not quite ready to release the tether of childhood.

And now one was afflicted with nightmares that might haunt her for years, nightmares that he had sensed even with her shields locked tight, and the other lay cold and lifeless, locked up behind a force field in an alien ship.

Qui-Gon shuddered abruptly, newly stricken as if he had just learned the dreadful news. How long, he wondered, before it became other than a jab of visceral pain, rendered more excruciating for being unanticipated.

"He was incredible, you know," said the girl.

"When you called," she nodded toward Solitaire, "and told me that you had the vaccine, and that Master Qui-Gon was trying to delay the doomsday torpedo, I knew we had to get you out of there, all of you, if we could, but . . ." She paused and looked up into the Master's eyes and read gentle approval there. "It was the medicine for Obi I was most concerned about. But the _Angel_ \- she wouldn't listen to me. She doesn't speak to me, of course, not like she does to him, but it was like I could sense that she was insisting that it was all too dangerous, and that she wouldn't allow him to be put in that kind of danger."

"And then, there was this - surge, I guess you'd call it. Like a flash of something that lit up everything, including the Force. I felt it like a tingle inside me, but I had no idea what it really was."

"A few seconds later, he was there. He was so sick and so weak - like death warmed over, and I don't know how he managed to get to the cockpit at all. But he did, and he just lifted me up and sat down, and pushed his hands into the force field. And she tried to fight him off; I could feel it. The ship tried to refuse his commands, but he just kept pushing - and pushing. And, in the end, she did what he told her to do."

Tears were spilling freely from her eyes as she stared up at the Master, and managed a tiny smile. "In the end, she couldn't tell him no, any more than any of us ever could."

The Master wrapped her in a gentle hug and nodded. "I know, Hon, and it wasn't your fault."

"I should have stopped him," she insisted, burying her face in his shoulder.

"Ciara," he replied softly, "you know as well as I do that, when he set his mind to something, no power in heaven could stop him."

She sniffled loudly. "You could," she replied finally.

But he was shaking his head. "Not really. Not always, anyway. And besides, in the final analysis, it wouldn't have changed anything. He would still be where he is now. The only real difference would be that all of us would be dead, and you'd be sitting here alone."

Sniffles abruptly became sobs, and the Master could only let her cry.

Finally, she raised her head, fighting for composure, and asked, "When will you take him home?"

"When the _Angel_ can be convinced to release him," he answered. "Mira and Rakoo are trying to rig communications between our bio-medical computers and her diagnostic system, but it's a slow process."

"Have they . . " She found that she simply could not continue.

"No. Apparently, the ship considers any attempt at an autopsy to be some kind of violation."

Ciara leaned forward abruptly, and Solitaire was the only one to overhear her muttered remark. "I know just how she feels."

Throughout the long hours, Solitaire had not spoken at all. She had not come here for vocal comfort, after all. She wasn't even sure exactly why she had come here. But she found, for whatever reason, that she wanted to be here, in this place, with these people, more than she wanted to be anywhere else.

She drained the last of the brandy and rose. "My turn," she said easily, without a trace of a slur or a wobble, and moved toward the corridor to fetch another bottle. 

Given the fact that she was hardly drunk at all, she was somewhat astonished to be caught unaware and almost flattened by a small, plump projectile that tore down the _Angel_ 's boarding ramp and came to a stop in the middle of the great bay, breathing hard.  
"Jinn! I know you're in here, Jinn. Where are you?"

"By all the levels of hell, Mira," came the response, "you needn't shout. I'm right here."

At any other time, under any other circumstances, she undoubtedly would have noted the slightly slurred speech and the somewhat pained tone that suggested a strained forebearance, but, at this particular moment, the Master could have paraded in front of her stark naked and shaved bald, and she wouldn't have noticed.

"He's alive." It was almost a whisper, but it packed the wallop of a thunderbolt.

Qui-Gon Jinn was on his feet, his face twisted in fury, before she finished speaking. "What did you say?"

"He's alive," she repeated, louder. "Obi-Wan . . . is alive."

The Master moved forward, his companions at his side. "He is ice-cold and blue," he snarled. "What game is this, and why are you playing at it?"

There was towering rage in his eyes as he approached her, but Qui-Gon Jinn was not the only Jedi Master in attendance at this event, and Mirilent was more than capable of holding her own against his wrath. "Don't try to intimidate me, Jinn," she hissed. "You know me better. I do not play games, when my patient lies cold and dead, especially this patient."

"Then explain yourself. And explain how, if he really lives, you could have mistaken him for dead."

There was a threat in those words, and he meant them to frighten and to force her to tremble before him. Instead, she laughed.

"We keep playing by the wrong set of rules, Jinn. It's that ship - that stubborn, obnoxious, arrogant, beautiful, wonderful, glorious ship."

"I don't understand," said Fer'mia uncertainly. "How can a ship . . "

But Ciara had begun to smell the truth and smiled broadly. "We don't have the knowledge or the technology to save him," she said gently, "but they do."

"Exactly," agreed Mira. "We've been forgetting that this ship was built by a race far more advanced than our own, one that probably has forgotten more about medicine that we'll ever know."

"But he's dead," cried Qui-Gon. "Granted that we can't even get through the force field to touch him, but his vital signs are non-existent."

"One word," she replied. "Cryo-stasis."

"What?"

She grinned broadly. "The ship put him into cryo-stasis, to prevent him from dying from the disease before he could be treated and cured."

"And you know this how?" Qui-Gon, who wanted, more than anything he had ever wanted, to be convinced, was still suspicious.

"We finally convinced the ship's AI to talk to us, or, at least, to talk to our bio-comp. He is alive, Qui-Gon, virtually frozen solid, mind you, but definitely alive."

"And he can be revived," said the Master. "Is that what you're saying?"

She nodded. "We just have to figure out how to do it."

Qui-Gon, Fer'mia, and Solitaire all exchanged glances, and then spoke as one. "Haven," they said.

"What?" Mira obviously had not seen Qui-Gon's earlier mission reports.

"That's where the answers will be," said Fer'mia. "If there are answers. That's where the ship came from, and where the technology is."

As he was speaking, he was bolting for the door.

"ETA?" called Qui-Gon, as Solitaire also hurried away.

"Depends," came the response, fading.

"On?"

"On how good my Jedi pilot is." He was in the corridor now, almost beyond hearing.

"Kenobi class," yelled Ciara, sprinting to catch up.

"In that case," Fer'mia was almost laughing, "Two hours."

***************** ******************** ***************

As it turned out, two hours turned out to be a bit of a pessimistic estimate. Despite a barely adequate crew complement (if one were willing to stretch the definition of the term 'adequate' to its most extreme parameters) and a balky fuel coupling that inspired Palani Vau-Bremayne to recall oaths in four obscure Corellian dialects, they actually completed the passage through the corridor with a full ten minutes to spare on their estimate.

For most of the individuals it was an intense two hours. The crew seemed determined to break all existing speed records and Ciara Barosse, for the duration, had become a member of the crew, while Mirilent Soljan and Rakoo spent the time coaxing, begging, pleading and cajoling the _Angel_ 's AI unit to speak to them in greater depth, to give them some hint concerning what they should do to get ready for whatever was waiting for Obi-Wan and how they should be prepared to treat him in the aftermath.

Qui-Gon Jinn paced. He paced in the shuttle bay. He paced in the ship's corridors. He paced, for a while, in the engine room, until Palani threatened to feed him to a balky reactor. He even tried pacing on the bridge, which lasted just until his path crossed that of Arain Fer'mia, and the Captain was lightening fast to point out whose bridge it was to pace with impunity.

So, after pacing in every conceivable place; after trying - and failing - to meditate; after performing a short series of katas in a cargo bay, and finding his concentration so erratic that he almost severed a coolant pipe with his lightsaber; he finally gave up and went to stand beside the biobed which had now, due to the possibility of a miracle provided by a technology far beyond their understanding, been transformed from a casket - to a cradle.

Mira and Rakoo were arguing, obviously, but they were doing so in two different languages, and Qui-Gon wondered if they were really disagreeing or if each was simply sniping for the sake of sniping.

Finally, the two disappeared into the medical lab, leaving him in relative peace to gaze down and wonder at the frozen stillness of that exquisite face.

He thought that he would have willingly surrendered his right arm just for the opportunity to reach out and touch the silky softness of red-gold hair, or to be able to wrap that slender hand in his own broad paw.

But the shield that shut his padawan away from him was smooth and seamless and uninterested in his needs.

Finally, he simply knelt beside the biobed, and closed his eyes and opened his mind to a lifetime of memories.

There were so many memories - first times, best times, good times, hard times. He hardly knew where to begin.

At the beginning, perhaps.

The first time he had caught a glimpse of a very small child with luminous sea-change eyes who had looked up at him and generated a bolt of awareness all the way down into his soul, and sent him, a renowned Jedi Master, stumbling away into relative safety, where such eyes could not follow. Obi-Wan had been three.

The first time he had felt that tiny hand curl into his own, to request a boost into the saddle of a pegei colt, which, with wings gently bound and fettered, had allowed the child to mount and ride and nuzzle its neck. During the course of the next hour, the small hand had been ready to accept the guidance of the towering Master as the first ever riding lesson was enjoyed and absorbed, and the little boy had crowed his delight. Obi-Wan had been four.

The first time the boy had mastered the most basic elements of levitation, and had celebrated, while giggling uncontrollably, by boosting Master Yoda into the upper branches of a flowering perilla tree, much to the poorly concealed delight of the little green troll. Obi-Wan had been five.

At ten, with arms and legs that had begun to grow too quickly for the torso to keep up, the boy had performed katas and engaged in a lightsaber duel, inviting the comments of the legendary Qui-Gon Jinn, and the legendary Master had found the Force presence in the boy so bright and compelling - and so frightening - that he had been forced to divert his attention to the glittering flares of anger and desperation he managed to discern within the brilliance, and render his judgment accordingly. If one could focus on the anger, one could then disregard the sweet purity that wrapped around the boy like a cape.

Then had come Bandomeer, and those were memories almost too painful to examine.  
Like Melida/Daan. The memory of a youth willing to sacrifice everything he was for the greater good; memories of total selflessness - even when it was misguided. And memories of Obi-Wan's terrible pain and the weight of dignity that he could shoulder when it was required of him, even when he was forced to carry it alone.

There were other firsts - some good, some not so good.

Like the first time the youth had come face-to-face with a young girl he had known and liked since they had been crèche mates together, only to find himself tongue-tied and blushing and stammering and having no idea what was wrong with him.

And the day when, having entered adolescence, he had come to his Master and asked, amid much hemming and hawing, to be taught to dance, so that he would not embarrass himself at his first diplomatic reception and the result of that lesson - the breathtaking vision of Obi-Wan in an academy dress uniform of deep blue, piped with red and cream, and the young lady he was assigned to escort, draped in a swirl of silver tissue, with scarlet gems and pearls twined in her moonlight blond hair, gliding across a dance floor with such perfect grace that all eyes were riveted upon them.

There had been the usual perils and triumphs of the dreaded teen-aged years; the first sexual fumblings, which he had tried, without great success, to conceal from his Master; the first bout of drunkenness, followed by the first - and most devoutly regretted - hangover; the first broken heart; the loss of virginity, which had been somewhat anti-climactic for Obi-Wan, who had been enough of a romantic to believe that the universe really should 'move' at the moment of orgasm; the first bout of jealousy, and the difficulty in learning to release it into the Force.

Then there had been the missions - countless missions, on countless worlds. Soft conversation and gentle laughter, shared in the flicker of campfires under the stars of a hundred different worlds, and later, on those same nights, the moments spent looking down at the youth curled within the sleeping bag, fingers clasped gently around the padawan braid - a habit he had retained, until forced to leave the braid behind him.

There had been wounds suffered and healed; skills sought and achieved; lessons learned - some easily, some not.

And even during what the Master had come to refer to as 'the frozen years' - with Qui-Gon locked in a fugue-state of misery following Tahl's death - even then, the memories had continued, if somewhat less vivid and gripping.

Good firsts, like his first medal in saber competition, and bad firsts, like the first time he had been forced to kill a sentient being and to learn to endure and survive the horrible black agony that followed such an act, and the guilt over having offended the will of the Force, no matter how grave or unavoidable the cause.

And through it all, the boy had accepted the Master's guidance, had allowed himself to be molded and corrected and altered, even when he sometimes questioned the Master's wisdom. Not that he had ever said so, of course; he wouldn't. But Qui-Gon knew the boy entirely too well to have missed it, and had loved him all the more for a loyalty so pure.

The moments of a lifetime and all that was good and right and precious to him - all of it - was centered around the boy who now lay pale and frozen before him.

He rose again, and looked down at those perfect features - still perfect, even in this perfect parody of death.

And smiled as another memory surfaced. 

A holiday celebration of some sort, at the Temple, and Master Adi Gallia, having imbibed just slightly too freely of the sparkling wine of the day, had observed, just loudly enough to be heard by every single individual present in the great banquet hall, that Qui-Gon's padawan was - without a doubt - "so luscious he practically begs to be nibbled on", having "the sweetest little ass this side of the Outer Rim." Unfortunately, 'every single individual present in the great banquet hall' had included the object of her observation, who had immediately turned brilliant red, prompting Master Mace Windu - who had also reached a state of moderate inebriation - to remark that the padawan in question "blushes as prettily as a girl."

Obi-Wan, mortified beyond enduring, had followed the only course open to him. He had risen, with great dignity, turned and bowed to his Master, as protocol required, and run like a rablet, to the gentle amusement of the assembled Masters. Even Qui-Gon had been forced to smile, despite sympathizing with his apprentice's embarrassment, for he understood, as Obi-Wan most certainly would not, that the remarks, and the attitude which had given rise to them, indicated indulgent warmth and affection, rather than any genuine lust, and had been meant as compliments, even if verbalized rather crudely.

It had taken him an hour to convince his reluctant apprentice, barely sixteen at the time, to venture out of his locked bedroom. And it had taken much longer than that - weeks, at least - before Obi-Wan was able to meet the gaze of Master Gallia, without going into a panic and looking for the nearest exit. Adi, sensible as always, had reacted with gentle good grace and an indulgent smile directed at the side of him she saw most frequently during that time - his backside, which, she confided to her closest friend, Master Billaba, was quite an acceptable view, from her perspective.

Qui-Gon took no notice of the tears that welled in his eyes as he studied the face of his apprentice, still as perfect as ever. Obi-Wan had always been somewhat surprised, and deeply embarrassed, whenever anyone spoke of his physical beauty, and it had taken years for his Master to understand that, whatever the boy saw when he looked in a mirror, it was surely different from what everyone else saw when they looked at him. It was hard to credit, but his young padawan learner genuinely did not recognize his own physical loveliness or the allure it held for admirers, of all races and genders and didn't want to hear about it from anyone else.

But something else was immediately evident now, looking down into the frozen countenance. As perfect as the features undoubtedly were, from the noble brow to the dimple in the chin (which he had always hated and would undoubtedly cover up with a full beard if he ever got the chance) the real beauty that had always struck the people who saw him did not lie, after all, in the pleasing aspects of his face; it came, instead, from the warmth and purity of the personality that gave life and breath to those features.

He was still very beautiful, but this shell of flesh, no matter how perfect, was not Obi-Wan. It was empty and remote, a stone image of the man who had once lived there.

Qui-Gon laid his palms against the barrier that enclosed his padawan, and found it pleasantly cool, but somehow, unpleasantly aware of his trespass. Still, he forced himself to ignore the sensation, which was akin to a writhing of worms of energy, and closed his eyes, reaching out for any minute trace of the spirit of the child before him. And there was nothing.

But he pressed on; he would not simply accept the evidence of his own senses. He had been wrong before.

"Obi-Wan," he said softly, picturing an image in his mind, of that beloved face, not still and lifeless as it lay now, but bright and vivid and filled with warmth, "come back to me. Please don't leave me like this. There is so much I never told you, that I should have told you. So much that I need to teach you, and so much more that I need to learn from you. Without you, I'm lost and without hope, and my life is empty. I don't expect you to understand what I did to you or to forgive me. I only ask that you give me a chance to make it up to you, to earn your forgiveness. Please. Please, come back to me."

When a gentle hand touched his shoulder, he turned to find Mirilent Soljan standing beside him, her eyes suspiciously bright as she regarded him with a sardonic smile. "I don't know what the future holds, Qui. Maybe this will work and maybe it won't. But I do know one thing for certain."

"Which is what?" he asked, with a sigh.

She nodded toward the bed where Obi-Wan lay so silent and untouchable. "He loves you too much not to forgive you."

He shook his head. "If he'll only come back to us, I could accept it if he hated me forever."

"I know."

"Any luck with the AI communication?"

Now it was her turn to sigh. "A bit, but it's not like we're trying to translate from one Corellian dialect to another here. The language barrier isn't just between different planets; it's between, at the very least, different galaxies; maybe even different dimensions."

"So what are you saying?"

"We've either explained his illness and asked for help in evaluating the vaccine, and directions on how to revive him . . ."

"Or?"

She shrugged. "Who knows? We might have just offered ourselves up as an appetizer course, and announced that dinner is served. The AI is less than convinced that we are, in fact, sentient beings; it may ultimately decide that we exist on the same intellectual level as cabbages, and serve us up with salt and vinegar."

"But it doesn't see Obi-Wan that way."

She smiled. "No, it doesn't. Guess it must be just as big a fool for those incredible eyes and that smart-ass little smirk as the rest of us."

"Do we have a Plan B?" he asked, deliberately not meeting her eyes.

She was slow to answer, and then looked up at him and refused to speak until he returned her gaze. "You need to understand this, Qui-Gon." There was a world of weariness, and something more, in her voice. "This is a one-shot deal. Either this vaccine works or this alien technology we're dealing with can come up with an alternative that will work, or we're out of options. His body cannot survive this disease, barring this tiny little miracle that we're asking for. With all the possible permutations of this virus, it would take me years to find a cure. Either this works, or we've lost him."

He didn't attempt to answer, but she saw the understanding sweep through him and knew that his heart and soul had shivered beneath the icy touch of reality.

Eventually he shook himself free of the dark foreboding and asked, "Do we have any idea where to go, once we reach Haven?"

"No," she answered, smile faltering somewhat. "But we have to believe that the _Angel_ does, and that's all that matters."

They lapsed into silence for a moment, both looking down at the focus of their attention.

"He's so still," breathed the Master. "And it's so strange to see him like that. He's never still, not even when he's sleeping, or meditating. It's almost like he vibrates, even when he's perfectly calm. I can't imagine never seeing him leaping into the air in the third movement of the fire and embers kata again - or twisting in the twined ribbons transition of the wind driven exercises. I just can't . . ."

"Endorphins," she said suddenly, eyes flaring.

"What?" Had the woman finally lost the last shred of her rational mind.

She reached up and placed her hands on either side of his face, which was quite a reach for someone of her limited stature, and beamed. "Endorphins, like the kind generated by all those katas you Masters are so fond of. That's what we can use to throw off the after-effects of the stasis field. Rakoo!"

The Master winced at the volume of the last word, as she sped away toward the medical lab, babbling happily about stimulants and chemical balances and duplicating the after-effects of vigorous exercise, and synthesizing the appropriate components.

Qui-Gon simply gazed after her for a moment, mouth gaping, before deliberately turning away from the biobed; staring, after all, would serve no useful purpose, and he walked down the boarding ramp and went back to the solitude of the viewport alcove in the shuttle bay.

He needed to meditate, needed to find a way to release his anxiety into the Force, and his rage. Rage that he had yet to confront, or to attempt to dissipate. Rage that had no true focus, and therefore would become doubly destructive if he did not deal with it, eventually becoming internalized and causing him to focus on his own inability to prevent the horror that had befallen his apprentice.

But meditation simply would not come, no matter how he pursued it.

Finally, he gave up and allowed his mind to take him where it would, into the past. Into the realm of memory. Into a world where precious padawans laughed and sang and sparred and ate staggering amounts of greasy, junk food and made bad jokes and - above all - did not lay chilled and blue-tinted and approximating death.

***************** ******************* *****************

In the end, their concerns about where to go once they arrived on Haven proved needless. As Mira had suggested, the _Angel_ knew exactly where she was going, and it was up to the mélange of sentient races that comprised the crew complement to keep up.

Qui-Gon was still kneeling beside the viewport when the _Lady Ghost_ inserted herself into a median orbit around Haven, and Mirilent Soljan's signature bellow echoed through the shuttle bay.

"Jinn, you better get in here - now!"

"What?" he demanded, sprinting up the boarding ramp at Force-enhanced speed.

She simply pointed into the cockpit, where panels were activating and controls were adjusting themselves.

The Master threw himself into the pilot's seat and plunged his hands into the interface junction, while activating a com-channel with a thought.

"Fer'mia," came the instantaneous response.

"Captain," said the Jedi, eyes sweeping the various displays hanging before his eyes, "if I were you, I'd open the bay doors, because if you don't, I believe the _Angel_ will, by any means necessary."

A quick flicker in the quality of the force-field surrounding the massive bay doors indicated that the Captain had complied with the request, and the portals began to dilate at an accelerated rate.

"We're assuming, I take it, that the ship knows where to go."

Qui-Gon suppressed a sigh. "If one wants to gamble, Captain, one must go to the only game in town."

"Nice metaphor," came the reply. "We'll follow you down."

Qui-Gon gestured for Mirilent to strap herself in. "You might want to hold off a bit on that. I have a feeling that this descent is going to be geared for only one thing - speed; prudence and comfort be damned."

Moments later, as the streamlined craft cleared the drag of the multi-layer forcefields around the bay doors, he was proved correct.

"Hold on," he advised, as the streamlined sloop leapt away from Fer'mia's ship, and bored straight down into the atmosphere of the planet.

Qui-Gon fought to convince the ship that a modicum of caution should be observed, but he had little effect. A quick glance revealed that Mirilent had turned a most unflattering shade of green, but he thought they should both probably be grateful that neither of them lost their last meal. He wasn't so sure about the Pholtchz healer, who was somewhere toward the middle of the ship, in or around the med-lab, no doubt, and who whistled piteously every time the ship changed vector, which happened frequently and violently.

Finally, however, it ended as abruptly as it had begun, when the _Angel_ came to a precise stop, hovering momentarily at a spot several kilometers outside the city inhabited now by Drimulan refugees, before settling on a parking pad, adjacent to a sprawling structure, crowned by an arrangement of conical towers, surrounded by a forest of blooming trees.

As Qui-Gon forced himself to take a moment to dispel the nausea within him before attempting to rise, the comm channel squawked loudly. "Where the hell are you, Jinn?" came the unsubtle demand. 

The Jedi activated a locator pulse as he replied. "Couldn't track her, hmmm?"

"Track her?" That was Palani Vau-Bremayne, sounding almost as amused as amazed. "We never even got a glimpse of her."

"Can we land there?" Ciara's voice was almost shrill with tension.

"Negative," replied Qui-Gon. "There's no room, but I'll stay in touch."

"Please see that you do." No one could have mistaken the harshness in the girl's voice for anything other than what it really was - raw, paralyzing fear.

"Are you sure you're in the right place?"

"No, but we don't seem to have much choice. And there is a structure of some kind here, which seems to be aware of our presence. I see lights activating inside."

"Qui-Gon."

The Master turned, hearing an uncharacteristic note of uncertainty in Mirilent's tone.

The bio-bed, which had become a casket for his apprentice, obviously had properties which they had all failed to understand. It also functioned as an anti-grav gurney. The hatch sprang open as the floating stretcher approached, and the boarding ramp extended ahead of it.

The bed, forcefields fully functional and intact, moved out of the ship and into the fluid loveliness of Haven's morning, leaving the inhabitants of the ship to follow - or not - as they saw fit.

They followed.

It was immediately obvious that this installation had been abandoned many, many years, maybe even millennia, before, as thick vegetation had encroached on the expanse of the landing area, and had even found a way to get a grip on the crystalline surface of the building that rose at the end of a path leading from the pad's edge. The effect, though probably just a result of random chance, was quite lovely, as the vines - thick with bright blossoms - draped themselves over towers and cupolas and reached from one wing of the structure to another, all atremble before a gentle breeze and all somehow - unmistably - connected to the Force.

An archway opened before them as they approached, and they moved into the building, expecting it to have suffered some damage over the years, from the encroachment of nature's greedy expansion.

But there was nothing but clean bright efficiency within.

The biobed moved directly into a semi-circular alcove set opposite the entrance, and they moved with it, only to be whisked upward into one of three towers. Strangely, the lift traveled at great speed - but there was little or no sensation of movement.

The strange procession continued when they stopped at a level that Qui-Gon estimated must be very near the top level of the tower, and they moved down a curving corridor, pausing finally before an aperture in the inner curve which was visible behind a translucent panel of scintillating light.

There was a flash, as the panel vanished, and the biobed moved through the aperture. But when the two healers and the Jedi attempted to follow, a barrier arose, refusing admittance to both Rakoo and Qui-Gon, but allowing Mirilent to pass.

"Hold it," snapped the Master. "You can't . . ."

Mirilent continued to move forward, speaking over her shoulder. "You've trusted him in my hands since he was four years old. You have to trust me now."

"But if this doesn't . . ."

"I know."

"I want to be there, Mira."

"I know, and you will. I'll come for you. I promise."

The Master sighed. "What should I do?"

It was more in the nature of a rhetorical question than not, but Mira paused to answer it anyway. "Go inside your heart, and find him. He's still there somewhere, you know. Even if you haven't been able to reach him. He's not in the Force yet; go look for him."

"And tell him what? How can I give him reassurance, when I don't . . ."

Her smile was gentle. "He doesn't want your reassurance, Qui. Just your love. Just tell him how you feel. That's all he's ever wanted."

With a tentative nod, the Master stepped back, and watched as the translucent panel solidified before him. 

His padawan would live, or he would not, and there was absolutely nothing that he could do to change what would be.

He found an alcove further down the corridor that seemed to be meant as a waiting area, and settled himself in the center of a broad, free-form bench set at its center. Louvered windows, of a translucent material much like frosted paristeel, opened automatically as he sat, and he was surprised and pleased when drifts of soft scent swept in to replace air that was odorless, but somehow sterile. Beyond the window, the ubiquitous gray-green vines lifted soft ivory cup-shaped blossoms toward the sun, much to the delight of tiny, jewel-toned birds that poised in the foliage and dined on the nectar presented by the blooms.

Rakoo, much to the Jedi's approval, decided to continue his exploration of the facility, and Qui-Gon closed his eyes and allowed his mind to drift. He would not force his meditation; he would let it come to him.

Time, he observed as the morning aged, was a recalcitrant companion; running away in great leaps when one wanted only to cling to it and hold it forever in check, and attaching itself like a leach to turgid flesh, when one could not escape its grasp quickly enough.

On this particular morning, it did not drag, or loiter or linger. It simply stopped, and refused to pass on.

Qui-Gon refused to address the torture it seemed so bent on inflicting; once more, he reached out to the Force, seeking solace, seeking comfort, seeking reassurance.

Eventually, through force of habit mostly, he was able to find his emotional center, and slip into his communion with the Force which had been so elusive of late. A great sigh of contentment filled him with warmth and light.

_He was marginally surprised to find himself in a strange place, a place he had never seen before, and one, he somehow knew, he had never been meant to see, and would never see again._

_The heavens above him seemed very close, and the stars were so thick that they almost seemed to touch each other. And the colors - there were colors, he suddenly saw, that he did not recognize and could not name. Colors that had never before existed, in the realm of his reality._

_Beneath the incredible sweep of the sky, there was an equally incredible sweep of ocean, but it was unlike any ocean he had ever seen, being completely, totally motionless, a great, reflective sheet of glass, radiating the image of the sky above it._

_It was like existing in a world composed of nothing more than light._

_Beneath his feet, however, there was some substance, white, fine - like spun sugar, but it was solid enough for him to know that it would bear his weight, provided he was very still._

_"Obi-Wan?" He had no real sense of the presence of his Padawan, but he did sense something, something that was not Obi-Wan, but was, somehow, a part of him._

_The column of light that formed before him was so pale that, at first, he thought it was just a figment of his imagination._

_Then the voice came to him._

_"He is not here, yet." It was a glorious voice, rich, beautiful, melodic._

_He waited, and saw the image form before him, but only the image of an image, translucent, pale - and incredibly beautiful._

_"What is this place?" he asked, feeling some form of awareness stir within him._

_"You are within the gateway that serves this world you call Haven - a conduit built by those who created this place, a nexus between dimensions, and a place where the reality within the Force, and the reality around it, can sometimes touch, for a few moments. This is one of those moments."_

_He knew, without knowing how he knew, that this enchanting creature forming before him had been meant for Obi-Wan, and waited for him, even now, in this enchanted place._

_The beautiful eyes - rain gray - studied him with a gentle smile. "You have realized who I am." The smile broadened. "He told me you were the most perceptive man he had ever known, and I see why."_

_"You have talked to him?" Qui-Gon tried, without notable success, to suppress the quiver of unease that raced through him._

_She nodded. "We have shared consciousness, but why should that disturb you so?"_

_He chose not to answer, but, in this place, no answer was just as revealing as any answer._

_"You fear that I will try to tempt him to stay here, with me." It was not a question, and he offered no response._

_When she continued, there was a note of wry amusement in her tone. "When the time is right, Master Jedi, he will come to me, and we will have eternity for our playground, and no power in the universe - or even in the Force - will stand against us. But the life that we should have had together - in your reality - is gone, as destiny is sometimes twisted by the forces of evil. We cannot resurrect it, but nothing can change what we will have when the time comes for him to join me here."_

_He stared into her face. "Are you saying that this is not that time?"_

_She smiled. "Why should I make it easy for you, Jedi, when you will make it so hard for him?"_

_"What do you mean? I won't . . ."_

_"You will." Her tone allowed no uncertainty. "You will welcome him back into your life, and you will love him dearly. Until it is no longer convenient to do so. He knows - as I do - that you will betray him again, Master Jedi. And yet . . ."_

_"And yet?" he prompted._

_"He will come back to you, if you call him."_

_He tried to read her eyes, but realized abruptly that she was fading into the darkness around him. "Wait!" It was a breathless plea. "How do I call him? What do I say?"_

_"Just look into your heart." The answer seemed cryptic, and unhelpful. "That's where he is, where he's always been. But understand this first, Jedi. Understand what he does for you. If he returns, as you ask, he forfeits every chance of personal happiness. In your betrayal, you will inflict a life of loneliness and regret on one who has given you nothing but love and devotion. He believes that nothing will prevent what is to happen, as do I. But at least, you should understand what you're asking of him, what you will take from him, when the time comes."_

_"I won't. I swear it."_

_Only her smile lingered now. "You won't be able to resist the temptation. It will define your existence."_

_"But how . . ."_

_"Fear not." She was gone, and the final words were mere whispers. "He will forgive you - yet again."_

He wakened to a hand tugging at his sleeve, and a strident voice - not known for its dulcet tones at the best of times - yelling in his ear.

"Come right now," said Mirilent, obviously enraged that it had taken him so long to answer her. "He needs you."

"The vaccine?"

"Administered," she replied curtly as they raced through the corridor, "and the reanimation process has begun, but his mind - I can't reach his mind.And if you can't . . ."

"If I can't?"

"His body will recover fully," she answered, "but he'll be lost to us just the same."

****************** ********************* ******************

tbc


	36. The Unfinished Man

Chapter 36: The Unfinished Man

 

_The ignominy of boyhood; the distress_  
_Of boyhood changing into man;_  
_The unfinished man and his pain._

_The Winding Stair and Other Poems_ \-- William Butler Yeats

As the Jedi Master sprinted through the corridor, he knew the meaning of fear so severe it was almost paralytic. Yet, he moved, for he had no other option.

His padawan needed him.

No. His breath hitched in his throat as he chastised himself for such arrogance. His padawan needed . . . something, and maybe he - the Master - would be able to provide it, or figure out what it was, and obtain it.

But if these past weeks had accomplished nothing else, they had proven that the venerable Master Jinn did NOT have all the answers, and, though he might convince most of his admiring public that he could indeed be all things to all people, the simple truth was that he could not even be all things to one person.

If Obi-Wan died here, no matter how prettily one tried to dress it up, it would be because of his Master's betrayal, for, had Qui-Gon not pushed his padawan aside in his haste to redeem his failure with Xanatos, the youth would be safe and healthy and exchanging gossip with friends in the Temple dining hall and planning practical jokes with Ciara and Garen, probably at the expense of stern Temple instructors.

"The virus is gone?" he asked, as they neared the confinement area. He knew he sounded ridiculously needy.

"Going," she replied. "He was pretty heavily infected; he had to be reanimated before the vaccine could be administered and a nastier piece of work than that particular pathogen I hope to never see. His organs had begun to liquify, so that we would never have been able to heal them, but the vaccine . . .

"Sirvik said it might kill him," he observed. 

She nodded. "And he was right. It probably would have."

"So why didn't it?"

She threw her arms up in a broad gesture. "This place. And his ship. Between the two, they saved him. They did things that I don't remotely understand, including synthesizing a blood supply for him and replacing every single drop of infected blood, and regenerating healthy tissue in all his organs, easier than you could build a lightsaber."

"So he's really OK, physically?"

Mirilent turned out of the corridor and led him through a series of shielded cubicles to emerge into a brightly illuminated chamber, which was lined - floor to ceiling - with banks of sleek equipment that had a vaguely biological appearance, as if it had been grown rather than constructed, most of it totally unfamiliar to either of them. At the exact center of the circular room, Obi-Wan hung suspended on a framework composed of nothing more than scintillant light.

Mira wasted no time, moving in to check his vital signs using the palm-size med scanner that hung on a cord around her neck.

"Still feverish," she reported, "but making progress. Heart rate and respirations approaching normal; pressure still slightly elevated." She turned to study a bank of monitors.

"Can you really read that?" asked the Master.

She smiled. "Not a syllable, but I ran some comparisons using our med-com, so I learned to decipher the symbols sufficiently to piece it together. Looks like his blood gasses are improving; white cell count . . ." She paused, somewhat breathless - then smiled. "Coming down, and antibodies stabilizing."

Qui-Gon seemed hardly to hear her, as he stood gazing down at his padawan's face.

"He's not breathing," he whispered.

"Yes, he is," she replied, somewhat absently. "Slow and shallow, which seems to be exactly what the machines want him to do."

The Master knelt slowly, so that his face was on the same level as that of his apprentice. There was still very little indication of life signs in the youth; he was still remarkably pale, and the delicate skin beneath his eyes and around his mouth was still tinted with a bluish caste. He was almost completely motionless, except . . . the Master leaned closer. Was that . . . Yes, it was. Eyelashes that were the color of beaten gold in this stark unflattering light were fluttering gently, as the eyes beneath them moved.

Obi-Wan was dreaming.

"I see it," said Mira, "but that still doesn't mean we can coax him to return to the world of the living. His dreams may be sweeter than what he expects to face here."

The Master lifted bleak, weary eyes to seek direction from her; it was a singularly bewildered look, filled with foreboding.

"It's up to you, Qui," she said gently. "Much as I hate to admit it, the unavoidable truth is that, if anybody can reach him, it's you."

"Why would he trust me?" he asked, barely audible and very shaky.

"I don't have a clue," she replied calmly. "I wouldn't, but I'm not Obi. Don't be an idiot, Qui-Gon; as far as I can recall, you never did give him a lot of reason to trust you, but it never stopped him before. Now stop stalling, and go in and bring him back with you - or don't come back at all. Got it?"

The Master actually managed a grim smile. "That's very reassuring, Mira."

"It's not meant to be reassuring," she retorted. "It's meant to scare the pants off you. Now go get him."

"You're a very single-minded woman," he said flatly.

"Thank you. Go."

With a wave of her hand, the healer adjusted the lights within the chamber, and they dimmed slowly, until there were only pools of golden radiance interspersed among soft shadows. The force field on which Obi-Wan lay dimmed as well, until it was only a dim luminescence beneath him, and a small monitor located above his head bathed his face with a pale glimmer.

Qui-Gon stretched out his hands, and laid one on each of the young man's shoulders, and was comforted by the steady pulse he felt against his palms and the yielding warmth of flesh that still looked like it should be cold and stiff. He was vaguely aware that Mirilent had retreated into shadows near the entrance to the chamber, but he dismissed her from his consciousness, as he opened himself to the Force, welcoming its familiar touch and allowing it to fill him.

Despite an almost desperate need to grip the energy with greedy fingers and infect it with his urgency, he managed to hold himself still and open, so that he was ready for the tendrils of guidance when they came to him, tendrils which wrapped themselves around his conscious mind and nudged it into the eddies and currents of the living sea that connected all living things, in search of that unique Force signature which had always gleamed so brightly that it could be sensed from across a room - or across a galaxy, if necessary.

It was not, however, allowing itself to be discovered easily today, but it was there . . . somewhere. The Master could not yet find it, but he knew that it had not yet withdrawn itself from the realm of the living, for there was no aching vacuum in place of where that signature should be. In fact, the Master HAD sensed that vacuum, in the long, cold hours before they had discovered that the boy's life had not, after all, been forfeit, but only suspended, waiting to resume its course.

The signature, when he finally found it, was recognizable, but only just; a faded, pastel version of what was ordinarily a brilliant glyph of technicolor intensity, and the Master forced himself to remain motionless, to stretch out with his senses only, and test the tensile strength of the vague, barely discernible filament of linkage that whispered to him of grave losses, too painful to be born, and huge, aching, heartrending loneliness, all painted in shades of gray - the color of sadness.

Qui-Gon felt a leaden heaviness settle in the vicinity of his heart, as he understood what he was sensing and realized what he would have to do to convince his young protégé to attempt a return to the realities of the physical world. 

It was not fair, he raged within himself, but he knew better. Knew that, ultimately, this turn of events was not as random as it might have seemed; knew that it could all be traced back to his own moments of crisis, moments when a step in one direction or another, decided the course of future events.

He had created this nexus of time and circumstance, and only he could see it through to its logical conclusion. And there were two possible such conclusions, either viable, either acceptable in the flagrant disinterest of the universe in the lives of such tiny, insignificant creatures.

But, oh, what a difference there would be in his own life, and in the lives of those whose existence touched and intertwined with his own.

Today, within the next few moments, Obi-Wan would live, or he would die, and, Mira's conclusions notwithstanding, Qui-Gon was pretty sure it would be real death, in all its unglorious ugliness. Where the spirit refused to dwell, could the body really endure? The Master thought not.

And the task of directing which path would be taken rested where it had rested since the very beginning of this debacle, squarely on the shoulders of Qui-Gon Jinn.

It was, of course, a simple task; he would save his padawan, would make sure that the fine young body and the exquisitely lovely consciousness that inhabited it would live on, would endure to serve the Jedi Order and the hope of civilization as he was meant to. But the Master didn't fool himself; he would do this because he must, do it for the sake of what must be, or what Obi-Wan was meant to be, and do it for his own sake, to avoid having to deal with the great emptiness that would engulf him should he fail; but this would not be done for the sake of his padawan.

What he would do - from Obi-Wan's perspective - would prove to be far more of a curse, than a blessing.

He knew now what the woman who would have been his padawan's soul mate had meant by her warning. When he pulled the boy back into the warmth of life, he also pulled him back into the machinations and turmoil of destiny, and out of his only recourse to joy or contentment.

Obi-Wan would live - and die - in great loneliness. That was the message she had tried to show him; that was what he had refused to see.

That was what Obi-Wan had already seen, and what he retreated from now.

_"You could let him go."_

Even in the ethereal reality of the Force, the Master felt the prick of tears behind his eyes. The voice that spoke to him was androgynous - every man - but he recognized it just the same. She knew, as surely as he did, that he couldn't simply back away and let Obi-Wan's consciousness spiral down into the sweet anonymity of the Force; but she was not going to allow him the luxury of creating a lie that he could live with.

He would do this - because he must - but he would do it in full possession of the unavoidable truth; this was not done to benefit his apprentice; this was not an act of selfless devotion; this was not for the sake of the young man who had given so much over the course of his life, and would yet be required to give so much more.

Saving Obi-Wan - bringing him back to the fold, to his life - was necessary for the sake of those who needed him, those who depended on him, those for whom he would provide the only hope in a despair so inclusive that it would plunge the universe into darkness, and shake the foundations of the Jedi and the Republic. For that purpose, his apprentice must be saved, and for the sake of his own survival, for he knew now that he could not endure if he lost this precious child.

But none of it - not a single nuance - was for the sake of Obi-Wan, and the only way to tempt him back to life . . . Qui-Gon shuddered . . . the only way, was to tell him the truth.

How could he do this? How could he tell him? 

_"How have you told him anything? Do you think now that he is a child who cannot face the truth? Obi-Wan has never been a child."_

_"Are you saying that I took his childhood from him?"_

_"Are you saying you didn't?"_

The Master took a deep breath and opened his eyes, and found himself . . . _in a world that had never existed in reality - but should have._

_It was a world that might have been named Serenity, a world where only harmony and light and beauty existed, where discord and enmity had no place. A world without shadows, without darkness._

_"What is this place?"_

_"Don't you recognize it, Master?"_

_Qui-Gon's knees were suddenly incapable of supporting him as he was touched and stroked by the sound of that beloved, cultured voice._

_Obi-Wan was lying beneath the drooping limbs of a very old tree, heavy-laden with waxy, cream-colored blooms. His eyes were closed, but he was smiling, as his fingers toyed with a lock of hair of the woman who cradled his head in her lap._

_The Master, if pressed, would have been unable to declare which of the two was more beautiful._

_"How should I recognize it, my padawan? I have never been here before, for surely I would remember such a wondrous place."_

_Blue-green eyes, enormously bright - almost feverish, opened to stare at him, before the apprentice sighed softly. "No - I don't suppose you have."_

_"Are you saying I should have come here before?"_

_"No. It doesn't matter." But something in the tone of those words said that it DID matter - very much._

_The Master approached slowly, and settled into the grass at his padawan's side, but he was careful not to venture too close - or to invade Obi-Wan's space._

_"Please, Padawan. Tell me what this place is, and why I have never seen it before."_

_Obi-Wan shrugged, and reached up to caress the face of the woman smiling down at him. "This is my place, where I come, when I'm lost or tired - or frightened. It . . . anchors me."_

_Qui-Gon's eyes swept around the little forest glade, noting the wealth of detail and the perfection of this vision. "It anchors you - when I don't. That's what you mean, isn't it?"_

_Obi-Wan sighed. "Not everything is about you, Master Qui-Gon."_

_"I wish I had been here before, Obi-Wan. I wish you had wanted to share this with me, before now."_

_Abruptly, Obi-Wan sat upright and stared into his Master's eyes. "I wasn't the one who didn't want to share, Master."_

_Suddenly, Qui-Gon shivered, and suppressed an urge to wrap himself in the manifestation of the cloak draped around the manifestation of his shoulders. The sunlight - also a manifestation - was suddenly pale and weak, and offered no solace._

_For a moment, he closed his eyes, and stared into the black maw of desolation. "Are you going to stay here, Obi-Wan? Do you hate me that much?"_

_To the Master's surprise, the boy laughed. "Is that what you think, Master? That I hate you?"_

_Qui-Gon looked up into his padawan's face and made no attempt to shield the dread in his eyes. "No, but that is undoubtedly what I deserve from you. I have wronged you most grievously, my apprentice, and have no right to ask your forgiveness. Nevertheless, I am asking."_

_Obi-Wan rose and turned to look off into the sky, where a magnificent sunset was just beginning to bathe the world in washes of coral and citrine. "Why should I come back to you? What can you offer - that I can't have here?"_

_The Master sighed. "I have nothing that can compete with what you have here, Padawan - except . . ."_

_Obi-Wan turned back to face his Master, and waited. He was NOT going to make this easy for the elder Jedi._

_"Except my love for you, Obi-Wan, and my vow that I'll spend the rest of my life making up to you for the wrong I've done."_

_Wearily, Obi-Wan sank to his knees, and Qui-Gon noticed - for the first time - that the boy was not dressed in his Jedi apparel, but rather in the tailored, close-fitting garb he had adopted since joining Fermia's crew._

_"No, you won't."_

_The boy didn't even bother with trying to elaborate his bold rejection of the Master's assurances._

_"Obi-Wan, I. . . ."_

_"No promises." The apprentice's tone was stern, unyielding. "No vows that you can't or won't keep. No pledges of deathless devotion."_

_The Master looked up into Obi-Wan's face and read a terrible exhaustion of the spirit there, and a terrible hunger - for truth. "What do you want me to say, Obi-Wan?"_

_The padawan turned to face the Master, inching closer so that their knees were almost touching, and reached out with one trembling hand to lay his fingers against Qui-Gon's chest, and drew a deep, shaky breath. "For once - just once - tell me what lies here. The truth, without trimming or editing, without tailoring it to what you think I want to hear. Just the truth."_

_When the apprentice would have withdrawn the hand, Qui-Gon caught it, and held it against his heart. "The truth. Very well, my padawan. This is the truth."_

_He paused, considering his words carefully, as he continued to clasp the boy's hand. "I don't know how to name what's in my heart. I don't know if I have any capacity to love left within me; I don't even know if I can remember how to trust anyone - how to trust you, as I should. I sometimes think of myself as a burned-out shell of a man, with nothing of value left to give."_

_"Master." There was an eternity of gentleness in that simple word, but Qui-Gon decided that he had been silent for too long, that he needed to speak, before his horded words shriveled and dried within him, and became stones to fill his heart._

_"I know only this, my padawan. If you are lost to me, then I have no interest in seeing the light of another day, or of welcoming the warmth of another sunrise. You are everything that I should have thanked the Force for, every day of my life, and the fact that I didn't do that is through my own blindness. I know nothing of love, Obi-Wan; it requires an ability that I seem to lack. But I do know about you, and what you are. Which is simply the best thing that has ever touched my life, and the only thing that makes it worth enduring. I can't promise to love you as you deserve, for I simply don't know how, but I will promise you to never again forget how much you mean to me or how much I need you."_

_The woman - Saischel - had not spoken since he had come upon them; nor did she say a word now. She simply looked at him, and, in her eyes, he read her own concession, as she rose and turned to walk away._

_But she paused for a moment, as if caught by a memory, and turned back, her eyes steady and commanding. "There is yet one thing to confess, Master Jinn. It will wait, for the moment, but it is, perhaps, the most damning thing of all. It stains your soul - and chains his. If you cannot face this final hurdle, you condemn both him and yourself. You must look within your own heart - for the source of darkness - and draw it into the light."_

_Once more, she turned to go, but Obi-Wan had also risen, and pulled her back to him, encircling her with gentle arms, a single flash of anger lighting his sea-change eyes._

_She smiled, and braced his face with her hands - endlessly tender - before touching her lips to his._

_Then she simply walked away, vanishing into a pastel mist that seemed to open to receive her._

_Obi-Wan lowered his eyes, and rubbed his forehead gingerly. "You can't imagine what you're asking me to give up."_

_The Master stepped forward, and - with exaggerated caution - eased an arm around the boy's shoulders. "You're right, my padawan. I can't imagine it, and I can't imagine why you would choose to come back to me, except that I know you too well to believe that you'd ever turn your back on those who need you so desperately. It isn't fair, my young apprentice, to ask you to give up so much, for so little gain. And yet, I must ask. We need you, Obi-Wan. I need you."_

_The boy was quiet for a while, lost in thought. "I need a little time, to think this through."_

_The Master felt cold fingers grip his heart. "Obi-Wan . . ."_

_"If you've spoken truly, you must trust me now, Master." The padawan's face was a mask of serenity._

_Qui-Gon took a deep breath. "I do trust you, Padawan, with my life and all that I am, but, should you choose to . . ."_

_Obi-Wan's eyes were suddenly very soft, and filled with sympathy. "Go on."_

_"If I must lose you, I ask for the opportunity to say good-bye . . ." It was immediately obvious that the elder Jedi wished to say more, but held himself in check._

_Obi-Wan merely nodded, and sank to his knees once more, deep in contemplation._

_With a leaden weight where his heart should have been, the Master turned away . . ._ and found himself once more on his knees in the medical chamber, his padawan's hand clasped tight in both of his own.

"Qui-Gon?" Mira's voice was sibilant, almost breathless.

The Master shook his head, blinking back tears. "I don't know, Mira. It's up to him, now."

 

************ ************** **************

 

"It's going to be a bitch to convince everyone that they have to leave this place."

That was The Ghost's considered opinion, and a very accurate one. Haven was probably as close to paradise as most of its residents would ever get.

Master Jinn wasn't particularly sympathetic. "They need not leave, as long as they're prepared to be shut off from the rest of the galaxy for a few decades."

Captain Fer'mia laughed. "You're forgetting, Jinn, a lot of these people have spent a considerable amount of time behind bars of one sort or another. It's not likely that they're going to voluntarily lock themselves away, no matter how sweet the cage."

Qui-Gon nodded, albeit absent-mindedly. "I'm sure you're right, Captain. In which case, it might be wise to urge them to begin the evacuation. Time grows short."

Fer'mia was sprawled in a great drift of clover, unmindful of the stains he was undoubtedly grinding into his clothing and the bits of straw that were lodged in his hair. Nearby, Solitaire and Ciara Barosse were engaged in enticing tiny delicate insects, with lacy wings of translucent scarlet, to poise on their outstretched hands and feed on the pollen collected from the pendulous gold and russet blossoms growing in mass profusion all through the tiny clearing in which they sat. Solitaire, as had been her wont recently, was sans mask and armor, and seemed almost as young and insouciant as her companion. Their laughter formed a soft counterpoint to the melody of a tiny stream splashing through a pebble-lined channel nearby.

Beautiful, thought the Jedi Master, and would have been hard put to explain who or what he was describing. The setting certainly deserved that particular adjective; framed with late afternoon sunlight, redolent with the scents of sweet grass and spring blossoms; it was difficult to imagine anything more idyllic. And the two young women so engrossed, for the moment, in their pursuit, were each as exquisitely lovely in their own way as any of the planet's spectacular attractions. Ciara wore the breathless dewy sweetness of youth with artless perfection, the heart-shaped delicacy of her face framed with a tumble of curls that caught and reflected the sun's gentle rays. And Solitaire - the Master paused - there was something diffferent about Solitaire, something very fragile and precious, but completely elusive; her loveliness was somehow almost luminous, almost moon-frosted.

The Master had to resist an urge to shake himself, physically. He'd been brooding entirely too much, and not meditating enough, so now he was falling victim to flights of fancy. 'Moon-frosted', indeed!

Four days now. They'd been sitting, here or elsewhere, always within sight of the medical facility, for four days.

Four silent days, and the only news had been negative.

No, he was not awake. No, his vital signs had not changed. No, there was no indication of increased brain activity. No, there was no appreciable progress. No, he was not responding to external stimuli.

No - he was not waking up.

Twice during that endless interim, the elder Jedi had tried to reach through the Force to re-establish contact with his padawan's consciousness, but both times, he had been refused. There had been no overt sense of rejection, of course; Obi-Wan was entirely too polite to indulge in such a display of bad manners. It was more as if the Master had been informed, in some subliminal way, that the party he sought was simply . . . out somewhere. Unavailable.

Qui-Gon heaved a deep breath, and forced himself to get to his feet.

"What are you . . ." Ciara's question trailed away, and it was perfectly obvious to everyone that she really didn't want an answer. 

The Master managed, barely, to clear his throat. "There are things . . to be done. We can't . . ."

"Can't what?" demanded Fer'mia.

"Can't wait forever," replied the Master, with only the barest trace of a quiver in his voice.

"Maybe you can't," retorted the Drimulan, not intimidated in the least by the towering Jedi's determination, "but I got nothin' but time."

"In point of fact, Captain," said Qui-Gon, "you're already missing in action, according to my sources. Drimula is in the throes of birth pangs, and your presence is greatly needed. Your people are in desperate need of guidance, and they respect you for your role in the resistance. Can you afford to simply hide here, and trust random chance to make things work out as you prefer?"

Fer'mia gazed toward the towers of the medical building. "Can't exactly claim that random chance has been working in our favor lately, now can we?"

"No," agreed the Jedi. "We can't."

"Well, I'm not . . ."

"You, Padawan Barosse," said the Master firmly, "are going to rejoin your Master, very shortly. He's en route, as we speak, to Drimula, with the children of . . ." his pause was barely noticeable " . . . with the clone children. He'll have need of your services."

Solitaire, very deliberately, extended her hand and urged a large specimen of the scarlet-winged creatures to take up a perch on an adjacent blossom. Then she rose, straightened to her not-particularly-impressive height, and managed, somehow, to stare down her nose at the Jedi Master, in spite of the fact that her nose barely reached to the level of his collarbone. "Don't even think about it," she said coldly. "You do not order me. No one orders me, not even Captain Fer'mia, as I'm strictly a volunteer. I am not leaving him here, I don't care how long it takes. And, unless I'm very much mistaken, neither is the Master Healer. I don't think you outrank her, Master Jinn, and I doubt it would make any difference if you did."

Qui-Gon's response was a sheepish smile. "You're right," he answered. "Under present circumstances, I doubt she'd recognize Master Yoda's authority over her."

"Present circumstances?" Fer'mia asked.

"Obi-Wan," replied Ciara. "She won't leave him. If it were me, or Master Jinn, or almost anybody else, she might be talked into seeing reason. But Obi-Wan? No way."

The Master sighed. "It's not as if she's actually doing anything. The equipment is all functioning automatically, and will do so whether she's around to watch it or not."

"And that's OK with you?" demanded Solitaire. "You're OK with just leaving him for the equipment to deal with."

Something cold and dark moved in the Master's eyes, but it was gone before anyone could identify it. "No," he said softly, "I'm not OK with it. I just don't know what else to do."

"Couldn't you try reaching him again?" asked Ciara. "I mean, he talked to you before. Why not now?"

Qui-Gon was staring off into the distance, but it was obvious that, whatever he was seeing, was something not of this world. "I don't know. I thought maybe . . ."

"Maybe what?" demanded the padawan.

"Maybe if I had something more to say, but I don't. And maybe he senses that. Maybe he's heard enough."

"Well, that's it then." The girl sounded as if she couldn't believe how dense adults could be sometimes.

"Excuse me, Padawan," said Jinn, in his best Masterly tone of intimidation, "but what is 'it'?"

She heaved a dramatic sigh. "You just have to come up with something new to say to him."

"Ciara," he said softly, "I've told him everything I can. I don't think he wants a blow-by-blow recitation of the Ballad of Brox-I-Marol. Do you?"

She rolled her eyes, and Qui-Gon was seized with a momentary desire for a gimmer stick of his very own. "Don't be silly, Master. It doesn't become you. Of course, it can't be something stupid and generic. It has to be specific, to you and him, I would think. Is there anything . . . unresolved, between you?"

He just looked at her. "You're kidding. Right?"

"OK, OK - stupid question. We obviously don't have time to go through the whole Mea Culpa routine. How about some small issue? Something specific that he mentioned, or you mentioned or . . ."

Something bright and brittle flared in the Master's eyes, and Ciara had to resist the urge to shout, "Gotcha!"

"Tell me," she said instead, dark eyes begging for him to be right, for him to have found a key.

"Something _she_ said," he replied.

"She?" Ciara's doubts were quick to show themselves.

"She," he repeated firmly. "Now what was it - something about a stain, on my soul?"

He paused, his brow pursed as he sifted through the detritus of memory, searching for the exact quote. And there, finally, it was, and he felt the words like icy breath on his skin. _But it is, perhaps, the most damning thing of all. It stains your soul, and chains his. If you cannot face this final hurdle, you condemn both him and yourself. You must look within your own heart - for the source of darkness - and draw it into the light._

"It stains my soul, she said - and chains his. The most damning thing of all." The Master spoke softly, but there was a depth of desperation in his tone. "I don't know what it means."

"Neither do I," admitted the Padawan. Then she smiled. "Yet."

But Qui-Gon was shaking his head. "It's too cryptic. I don't think . ."

Ciara held up her hands in a classic gesture meant to silence him. "Look, I don't even know who this 'she' is - but I have to assume, since you're obviously taking what she said seriously, that she wouldn't deliberately conceal something that would help him. Right?"

The Master's smile was weary. "I'm not sure, Padawan, that she would have the same definition of the word 'help' as we do. To her mind, our goal is not to save him, but to use him for our own ends."

The girl gaped. "But that's just stupid."

"Not at all," replied the Master softly. "She's right."

"You going to explain that?" asked Captain Fer'mia, suspicion bright in his eyes.

"No."

"Oh," said Ciara, apparently for lack of anything else to say. "Okay, let's figure this thing out. What stains your soul and chains his?"

It was Fer'mia's turn to sigh. "Great poetry, but completely useless."

"Maybe not," said the padawan thoughtfully, softly.

"Don't tell me you understand that," said Solitaire, obviously skeptical.

"Well," the girl replied, "I don't know about what stains Master Qui-Gon's soul, but I could make a pretty good guess what chains Obi-Wan's."

"Which would be what?" demanded Fer'mia, not at all enthralled with this little game.

"Guilt," said Ciara. "Absolutely no doubt about it. It's plagued him his entire life, and kept him from . . . ."

She paused, and her eyes were distinctly wary as she looked up into Qui-Gon's face. He allowed himself a deep, shaky breath. "Go ahead, Padawan," he said finally. "You can say it."

With a slight shrug saying, basically, that she was not responsible for any mangled feelings resulting from her pronouncement, she continued. "It kept him from demanding his due from his Master. I'm sorry, Master Jinn. I know that what happened wasn't your fault, but, when Master Tahl died, you basically abandoned Obi-Wan. You left him to fend for himself, and you left him to feel that he was responsible for what happened. He was sixteen years old, and you left him to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders."

And there it was; in the girl's verbal musings, dressed up and glossed over and hiding in plain sight as it always had. The truth, in all its ugliness.

Guilt - yes, she was right. That was the chain that bound Obi-Wan to the past; that kept him from soaring as he was meant to do, that prevented him from scaling the heights of achievement.

Oh, but that was only the effect - the final product of the process - the price collected from the innocent victim.

He had not, as Ciara suggested, left his padawan to carry the weight of the world. Oh, no - nothing so simple. He had, in fact, placed the huge weight on those slender young shoulders himself. The real sin. the stain on his own soul, was that he had known all along, had constructed the entire scenario with his own bloody hands. He, Qui-Gon Jinn, Jedi Master, had created the guilt - breathed life into it, molded it, inflated it, embellished it, custom-designed it, and, finally, inflicted it on a child who had entrusted the Master with both his heart and his soul. Inflicted it, and then used it as a Master control device.

He remembered. Oh, gods, he remembered. Remembered every time he had pressed that button, to dim the joy in that sweet, innocent little heart, because he could not bear that anyone should know such happiness when he could not claim it for his own. Remembered every time he had condemned with faint praise, for it would not do to allow the boy to grow too confident or too assured of his own worth, for then he might question the Master's judgments. Remembered how easily he could drain the light of exhilaration from those luminous eyes; how quickly he could translate the sweet taste of triumph to the bitterness of defeat. Remembered, above all, how ridiculously easy it was, and how much easier it became as the years flew by, to generate feelings of worthlessness - of being not good enough.

And found that he could not remember the last time he had restrained himself from using the weapon he had constructed all those years ago, constructed for one purpose only - the complete control and ultimate destruction of the child entrusted to his care. He had done it all and never even recognized what he did - or why he did it.

There in that lovely clearing, on the beautiful planet of Haven, for the first time in his adult life, the Jedi Master came face-to-face with the darkness within his own heart and went to his knees, keening with the agony of it.

"Oh, Sweet merciful mother of the gods," he moaned, "what have I done? How could I do that to him? Oh, please, no, tell me I'm wrong. Tell me I didn't."

It was Ciara, with Jedi reflexes and instincts, who knelt to minister to him, who felt the blind torment in his soul and could not remain aloof to it, no matter how much she resented what he might have done to the boy who had been her best friend for her entire life.

She didn't know what to say. So, in the end, she said nothing. She just knelt beside him and cried with him and whispered sweet, soothing words that had no real meaning, but served the purpose nonetheless.

Solitaire and Captain Fer'mia simply stood and waited. Neither had any particular reason to feel fondness for the Jedi Master, but both realized that, whatever epiphany he had just confronted, it was something so huge and so compelling and so damaging that, very probably, only a Jedi could have endured it. And it wasn't entirely certain that even Jedi strength would be enough.

It was quite some time before the Master was sufficiently calmed to free himself from the arms of the young padawan and rise to his feet, shaky but recovered. Somewhat.

"Master?" said Ciara, her uncertainty plain in huge, shadowed eyes, as she studied his countenance. The sunlight had gone now, and darkness was settling around them, and the Master's face was deathly pale.

Qui-Gon drew a deep breath and looked down into the elfin face of this friend of his padawan's childhood. The fact that he owed her a huge debt was undeniable; the fact that he could barely stand to look at her was his problem, not hers. "I thank you, Padawan Barosse. You have helped me find my way to a truth I had refused to see. We must hope that it will be enough."

He turned to walk away.

"Where are you going?" asked Fer'mia, still uneasy.

Jinn's pause was infinitesimal. "I'm going to retrieve my padawan, Captain, if he'll have me. If he can forgive me."

"But you don't think he will," called the Drimulan, as the Master continued to walk away.

The Jedi didn't hesitate, but answered anyway. "I wouldn't," he said softly.

*************** *************** ****************

_She was waiting for him, and Obi-Wan was nowhere to be seen. It was the same place where he had last spoken to his padawan, but it was dark now, lit only by starlight and reflected slivers of moonlight._

_"I wondered," she said, without any preamble, "if you would be strong enough, and honest enough to see it."_

_"Does he know?"_

_She smiled. "Of course, he doesn't. You did your job entirely too well, Master Jinn. He wears the blame wrapped around him like a shroud. Only one pair of hands can rip it away from him, and it won't be easy and it won't be quick and it won't be painless. Are you sure you're up to it?"_

_He maintained his grip on his serenity only by virtue of an Herculean effort. "You really don't want to let him go, do you?"_

_She made no attempt to deny it. "I have no ulterior motives, Master. I simply want to love him and make him happy. That's a statement that no one else can make."_

_"But it isn't what he's meant to do."_

_She sighed, and her smile this time was weary - and old, somehow. "I hate it when someone plays that old destiny card. There's no way to defend against it - even though the destiny that should have been - for us - has been destroyed, by acts of deliberate malice."_

_"Thank you," he said gently, "for loving my padawan."_

_She actually chuckled softly. "Unfortunately, that's destiny too. I had no choice, but I would not have changed it, even if I could."_

_She turned to depart, but paused for one last comment. "I am with him always, for all time, but, for the most part, he will not see me. He needs someone to love him, Master Jinn. I know, as he knows, that you will one day believe that you have no choice but to abandon him, but I ask you, until that day, to give him what you have withheld from him for so long, what he has earned. Love him. Just love him."_

_"I will. I swear it."_

_She smiled. "Until you don't. It's not enough, but it will have to do."_

_There was no opportunity for him to argue her contention, for she was simply gone, and his padawan was standing before him, in her place, and the Master's heart seemed to flinch within his chest._

_"Will you come back to me, Obi-Wan? There is much that I must tell you, much that you must know."_

_The apprentice allowed his eyes to sweep the scene around him, as if to say good-bye, then he nodded, albeit wearily. "Yes, Master. I will come."_

_Hesitantly, Qui-Gon stepped forward and drew the slender figure into a loose embrace, cradling the youth's head against his shoulder and stroking a gentle, almost reverant hand through the silky spikes of soft red-gold hair. He felt the hot splash of tears against his throat, and could not have said if they were his padawan's or his own._

_And when he pulled away. . ._ they were back in the medical bay, and the instruments that lined the chamber were shrieking in the manner of all medical instruments in all medical facilities throughout the galaxy.

Obi-Wan winced as he looked around, knowing instinctively where he was.

"You'd think," he said hoarsely, in a voice raw from disuse, "that a truly advanced civilization would have figured out how to make biological indicator alarms that don't shatter the ear drum of the patient."

Qui-Gon managed a half-smile, before burying his face in the folds of his own robe and sobbing like a crecheling. 

A gentle, tremulous hand rose to stroke the silky weight of the Master's hair, and the voice that accompanied the touch was no more than a whisper. "'S okay, Master. I'll be right there, I promise."

The apprentice did not - could not - stay awake long, and, under the iron hand of Mira Soljan, would not have been allowed to do so anyway. But, when he fell back into the grasp of sleep, it was ordinary, common, garden-variety sleep, not the deep coma in which he had resided for so long.

Mira and Qui-Gon stood side-by-side, gazing down at his face, now flushed with returning health.

"Come on, Old Bastard," said Mira, grabbing the Master by his arm, "I'll buy you a cup of tea."

He frowned at her. "I thought you didn't like me."

"I don't, most of the time - but today? Today, you're all right."

"What's different about today?" he demanded, as he tried, without success, to pull away from her grasp in the hope of remaining at his padawan's bedside.

"Today," she said softly, steadily drawing him away from her patient, "I think you just might have saved his life, so I'm prepared to forgive and forget, until the next time you act like a complete bastard, at which time I will certainly nail your ears to the wall. Agreed?"

To her utter astonishment - and his - the towering Master bent forward and dropped a kiss on the crown of her head. "That's for my padawan," he said softly.

She favored him with a skeptical glance. "Yeah? Well, no offense, Master, but I'd much rather have it directly from him."

He barked a brief shout of laughter. "You're a complete leche," he accused.

She grinned. "Are you kidding me? Just turn around and take a look at that face - among other things - then see if you can find me any red-blooded (or otherwise) hetero-sexual female anywhere in this galaxy that wouldn't drag that into her bed, anytime, if given the choice - Hutts included."

He looked back into the med chamber, where the automatic sensors had lowered the lights to a dim glow and Obi-Wan was just a slender shadow. "He WILL be all right, won't he?"

For once, her smile was gentle. "Hey, he promised you, didn't he? And there may be few certainties in this universe, but one of them is that Obi-Wan Kenobi would cut off his right arm before he'd break a promise to his Master."

With a last glance toward his sleeping padawan, the Master allowed himself to be pulled out of the chamber, his heart at ease, for the Healer was right. Obi-Wan would never break such a promise.

**************** *************** ******************

For several days, Obi-Wan drifted, spending most of his time in the grasp of slumber so deep, it was virtually dreamless, which seemed to suit him just fine. and the remainder in some misted never-never land where there was very little pain and a great deal of peace. Periods of true consciousness were few, and his mind held a montage of images, garnered from his brief awakenings: Mirilent Soljan stroking his face with a cool cloth, murmuring endearments and scolding him for frightening her so; his Master, seated at his side, grasping his hand and trying, vainly, to conceal the rise of tears in midnight blue eyes; Ciara Barosse, practically laying across his torso, completely disregarding the Healer's admonitions to treat him gently and telling him some long, convoluted joke that he couldn't quite follow; Arain Fer'mia standing at his bedside, staring down at him with haunted, shadowed eyes and reaching out to touch his face with aching gentleness; Solitaire leaning forward to claim his lips with a kiss so delicate he barely felt it, her eyes aglow with warmth and tenderness.

When he finally woke and knew himself to be back among the living - at least for a while - it was Ciara who greeted him with a hug that almost dislodged him from his bed.

Then she kissed him, which surprised him, because it was something they had done very little of in their long friendship; not, at least, since their first fumbling experiment with sexuality which had left them both in an uncontrollable fit of giggles, spurring Obi-Wan to comment that it had been like kissing a maiden aunt, thus reducing Ciara to another bout of laughter.

He cleared his throat, crossed his eyes, and looked up at her. "Woman, are you lusting after me?"

She chuckled, yanked painfully at a lock of his hair, and said, "Get over yourself, Kenobi. You're not my type."

He frowned. "Last time I looked, I had two legs, two arms and one penis; isn't that the definition of your type?"

"Remind me," she drawled, "to beat the shit out of you just as soon as you're well enough."

"In your dreams, Runt."

She leaned forward and grabbed both his hands, raising them to her lips in a gesture that was both awkward and curiously touching. "You really scared me this time, Jerk-Off, me and your Master, too. Thought we'd have to sedate him before you came around."

Obi-Wan traced her chin with gentle fingers, before playfully tapping her nose with his fist. "Yeah, I could tell. He's been broadcasting remorse on every Force frequency, loud and clear."

She studied his face. "You sound skeptical, and that's not like you."

"Oh, I believe it's sincere," he replied, "as far as it goes."

Ciara was very still, hearing something in his tone that raised alarms in her mind. "What are you thinking, Obi?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do not give me that shit, Kenobi; you know perfectly well what I mean. What is it that you're not saying?"

He sighed, and looked up into her eyes, and tried to put on his most innocent face, all to no avail. She simply stared, and waited.

"It's just not as simple as he seems to think," he said finally. "I've done things . . . I'm not sure the Jedi will forgive me, Chi, or that I can forgive myself. At the same time, I feel betrayed. Abandoned by the Order that I pledged my life to, as if, perhaps, they should have also pledged their lives to me. Is that stupid?"

Ciara sank to her knees as she stared at him. "You're thinking of not coming back, aren't you?"

He closed his eyes and felt the foreboding rise within him. Could he face it again, he wondered. Was he strong enough?

"I've found," he said slowly, "that I can exist without it, if I must. That's not the same as not wanting it or not missing it, but it's a comfort. It's . . ."

"Cut to the chase, Kenobi," she said abruptly. "Are you coming back?"

"Ciara," he said gently, "they may not accept me. It may be too late."

She shook her head. "Qui-Gon won't settle for that; you know that. He'll defy them, if he must, and you know they can't afford to lose him. They'll back down."

"So I'm to become a Jedi, because of my Master's strong arm tactics? Does that feel right to you?"

She rose and stared down at him, and he was shocked to read the level of anger that flared in her eyes. "Does that feel right to me? Is that what you asked me? Let me tell you what doesn't feel right to me. What doesn't feel right - and never felt right - was for you to be cast aside like yesterday's garbage; for you to be gone; for you to be denied your dream. That's what wasn't right. Don't you dare ask me if it 'feels right' for you to become a Jedi? Because I don't care if it happens because Qui-Gon holds a blaster to somebody's head, or because Mace Windu threatens to hold his breath til he turns blue, or because Master Yoda wants to hurry up and knight you so he can race home to take off his pantyhose. I don't care about the reason. All I know is that, more than anyone I've ever known, you deserve to be a Jedi knight."

For a moment, he simply looked at her, before breaking into a broad grin. "Yoda in pantyhose, huh? What an image!"

She leaned over him and touched the tip of her nose to the tip of his. "You think you're going to get away with distracting me, don't you?"

He smiled. "A try, it was worth."

"Do, or do not. There is no try."

"Where are my pants?" he demanded suddenly.

She grinned and pulled at the sheet that covered him. "Does that mean you're not wearing any?"

He snickered as he struggled to sit up. "Hang around for a beat, and you're going to find out."

She straightened and turned away, laughing softly. "Think I'll pass. I haven't been a charter member of the "Peeping at Obi Club" for a long time."

He paused, pushing himself to his feet but being careful to keep a firm hold on the edge of his bed. "There's no such club," he said firmly. "Is there?"

She grinned, glancing back over her shoulder and giving him one quick, acerbic leer. "Of course not." But something in her tone - and in her eyes - made him wonder.

Ciara made her exit, just as Mirilent Soljan, emerging from a detailed study of diagnostic data on her portable medical scanners, noticed that her star patient - and only patient - had hauled himself upright and was demanding his trousers, at least a full day ahead of schedule, according to her prognosis. It was debatable, thought Ciara, which of the two was bellowing at greater volume.

The Padawan laughed softly, as Obi-Wan, obviously completely outdone, and probably tackled and forced back into his bed by a stubborn healer not at all averse to using underhanded trickery to get her way, shouted out a particularly vile curse - in three different outer rim languages. 

For a while - a long while - she had thought never again to hear such foul oaths in that sweet cultured accent. It was music to her ears.

*************** ******************** *****************  
tbc


	37. The Depths of Being

Chapter 37: The Depths of Being

_This is the hour_  
_of fallen leaves, their dust_  
_scattered over the earth, when_  
_they return to the depths of being and not being_  
_and abandon the gold and the greenery,_  
_until they are roots again,_  
_and again, torn down and being born_ ,  
_they rise up to know the spring._

\- Pablo Neruda - _The Egoist_  
Translated by William O'Daly

 

If he had hoped for a peaceful convalescence, Obi-Wan quickly learned that he was doomed to disappointment, but decided soon enough that it was not such a disappointment after all. For these, he soon saw, were stimulating times, for both Drimula and Haven, and, though his strength was limited and his activities monitored by his personal healer with a fanatical zeal he thought more appropriate for an evangelical Sith recruiter, he found that time hung heavy on his hands when he was idle.

And the time hanging heavy on his hands was only a pale imitation of the concern that lay so heavily on his heart.

But he was extremely careful to keep himself fully shielded against intrusion, accidental or otherwise, from his Jedi colleagues.

Which fooled no one, of course. Both Qui-Gon and Ciara Barosse knew immediately that he was keeping something to himself, and Mirilent Soljan was so convinced that it was something innately harmful to him that she threatened to sedate him and take it from him by Force. Which would, of course, be a severe, virtually inexcusable violation of the Jedi Code, but even the use of the threat was sufficiently beyond the pale to demonstrate how seriously she regarded his stubborn reticence.

Yet, he remained obdurately silent, deflecting questions with diffident smiles and sardonic wit, and ignoring the speculative looks he garnered from his companions.

His task was made easier, of course, once the greatest threat to his ability to maintain his control was removed from his immediate vicinity. Both the Jedi Council and Supreme Chancellor Valorum reasoned, correctly, that failing to take advantage of Qui-Gon Jinn's expertise and skill in the fine art of negotiation would be foolish in the extreme during the crisis that was growing around them. Thus he was soon heavily involved in the escalating difficulties of trying to establish a new democratic government for Drimula, a task rife with a multitude of problems, all exacerbated by a facet of Drimulan personality which the Jedi had only just recognized; Drimulans loved to argue - more, apparently, than they loved to eat, or drink, or procreate. Representatives of the various factions of the society had been summoned to a constitutional convention, to work out the charter under which the new government would be formed; the convention had opened amid great fanfare and lofty speeches, extolling the grandeur of the purpose and the nobility of the people, and then promptly deteriorated into shouting matches and squabbles that would certainly have developed into physical confrontations without the intervention of a towering, powerfully-built Jedi Master who was, in a remarkably short period of time, perfectly willing to allow his size and stern visage to persuade prospective combatants to take time to rethink their actions.

Arain Fer'mia, who had stood by without comment as the situation went from bad to worse, had observed the Jedi Master's growing irritation with the recalcitrance of his fellow citizens, and, once the potentially explosive situation had been successfully defused, had excused himself, located a secluded chamber which offered some modicum of privacy, and howled with laughter, until he was choked with tears. When, after some moments, the Jedi had joined him, looking like a towering thundercloud, threatening to burst, it only served to set the Drimulan off again. 

Finally, helplessly, the Master had recognized the farcical quality of the entire debacle and was soon just as incapacitated and breathless as his Drimulan counterpart.

It was at this point, after monitoring a single, morning session, that the Jedi bowed to the inevitability of the situation, and called for back-up, only to be reminded that it was already en route. Ramal Dyprio was wasting no time, it appeared, in coming to reclaim his padawan; he would be accompanied by Devlyn Fer'mia, Rain's nephew, now restored to good health, and his grandfather, Mer'lioz, and it was hoped that the Drimulan priest would be helpful in bringing order out of the chaos still running rampant on his home world.

In addition, there would be the other group of passengers, and Master Jinn heaved a huge sigh as he considered his best course of action. He had debated telling Obi-Wan immediately when he had learned that the clone children would arrive within a matter of days, but he had decided, finally, that this was news best delayed until his apprentice was more fully recovered from his ordeal. Thus, he would inform his padawan when he saw him again.

A resounding crash that sounded suspiciously like massive amounts of crockery impacting against walls, floors, and - just possibly - a few heads, convinced him that freeing himself to actually visit his still-ailing apprentice in person might take considerably longer than he had originally believed.

He sighed and opted to pretend, for a few minutes, that he had been stricken deaf as he keyed the code sequence to activate the direct channel to Haven, which he and Arain Fer'mia had cobbled together from spare parts.

"Barosse," came the response, almost immediately and with remarkably little interference, all things considered. The image on the viewscreen, while lacking the three-dimensional quality of holoviews, was still quite clear, displaying a tumbled mass of dark curls from which one bright, baleful eye seemed to be attempting to focus.

"Padawan," greeted the Master, striving for calm, despite the pandemonium escalating outside the tiny chamber in which he sat, "I hope I didn't wake you?"

She gave him a look that was only slightly less sarcastic than her tone of voice. "No, I always look like this at . . ." she peered at a wrist chronometer ". . . two hours before sunrise. Waiting around for a com-call at this hour is the stuff that dreams are made of."

"Padawan." He allowed the smallest degree of disapproval to creep into his tone, but the yawn with which she responded led him to believe that she had either missed it altogether, or figured he would put her insolence down to sleep-deprivation. 

_Wrong, Little Girl_ , he thought, with a particularly nasty grin.

"I assume he's sleeping," he said quietly.

But she shook the mop of hair sharply. "I doubt it. He doesn't, much, you know. He's probably up to his ears in evac plans and vessel allocations. Or he's out exploring."

He favored her with a crooked smile. "At two hours before sunrise?"

She stifled another yawn. "Seems to think he's had enough sleep to last a while."

"I assume he's making progress with the evac schedule," observed the Master.

Once more, she allowed the faintest trace of insolence to thread both her voice and her expression. "Surely I don't have to tell you that Obi-Wan Kenobi never met a logistics problem that didn't go queer and dewy-eyed over him within thirty seconds of his first touch."

Qui-Gon actually had to cover his mouth with his hand to conceal a grin. Pithy and occasionally borderline-vulgar she most certainly was, but she was unerringly accurate and honest to a fault. "And otherwise? How is he, Ciara - really?"

Her sigh rode the thin edge of melodrama. "Physically, he seems fine. Tires easily, but, other than that, he's almost back to normal."

The Master nodded. "And beyond the physical?"

She hesitated, weighing her words. "It's - it's as if . . . ."

"As if what, Padawan?" he prompted very gently, recognizing the fact that she was feeling somewhat conflicted, caught between her loyalty to her lifelong friend's desire for privacy and his possible need for intervention from his Master.

Something pale and tremulous moved in her eyes. "There's a stillness inside him, Master Jinn. Like he's watching for something, waiting for something, or brooding over something."

"Do you have any idea what it might be?"

She gave a short bark of laughter. "Fat chance of that. You know as well as I do, if he wants to keep something to himself, you couldn't get it out of him with a rack and a whip."

The Master was thoughtful for a few moments, before deciding, with a small sigh, that he must release his anxieties to the Force, and attend to his purpose of the moment. For his entire life, he had trusted the Force to guide him and provide for him; he could do no less now, even though it was inordinately difficult, for he realized that what was at risk now was nothing less than the possibility of his future happiness. Obi-Wan was the key. He didn't bother wasting time regretting that he had been so slow to recognize the truth of that, but he resolutely refused to dwell on his fears. 

He had done everything he could and would do more when and if the opportunity arose. But, for now, he must center himself and perform his duties.

"If he's awake," he said, "I'd like to speak to him."

She responded with an inarticulate grunt and appeared to be wrestling with the com equipment.

For some moments, there was only the sound of her breathing, and a few whispered curses, not quite loud enough to understand.

"Padawan?" he prodded.

"Okay, okay," she retorted, "keep your knickers on. This unit is older than Master Yoda, you know, and I swear Obi must have put it together with rubber bands and spit. I'm trying to . . . Aha! Got him. Audio only, though. He's somewhere out on the grounds."

"Kenobi," came the expected response, slightly tinny and broken with static.

"Obi-Wan," said the Master, "where are you?"

The pause before answering was infinitesimal, but Qui-Gon heard it just the same. "I'm in the gardens, Master Jinn."

The elder Jedi didn't bother trying to conceal the wince brought on by that particularly repellant form of address; there was, after all, no one to see him. "Of course. I found them quite pleasant, and ideal for meditation. Particularly the informal areas."

Again, that tiny pause, and Qui-Gon was suddenly, absolutely sure that, whatever his apprentice might be doing, it had absolutely nothing to do with finding his calm center. "Yes, quite pleasant. Can I help you with something?"

The words were correct enough, but there was no mistaking the coldness underlying the polite form. "As a matter of fact, you can, Padawan."

No response, and the silence stretched thin, very quickly.

The Master continued, swallowing the unease the filled him. "Your presence has been requested by the Drimulan interim governing body. They want to give you a medal."

There was just the faintest huff of what might have been soft laughter. "Not necessary. Surely you could have told them . . ."

"Yes, I could. And so could the Council, but they feel, as do I, that it would be healthy for the Drimulans for you to accept. They've been through the fires of hell, Obi-Wan; they need something to feel good about. And you're it, I'm afraid. I know this sort of thing isn't to your taste, but it . . ."

"It's all right," said the apprentice abruptly. "When?"

"Three days. I think you'll be pleased to know that Devlyn and Mer'lioz will be here for the ceremony. Do you think you'll have the evac plans completed by then?"

And the Jedi Master's eyes widened and darkened, as his very acute hearing suddenly registered that his padawan was not alone, and that his companion was most definitely of the feminine persuasion, judging by the soft, husky peal of laughter he heard beneath the sound of Obi-Wan's breathing.

"The evac plans," replied the apprentice, slightly out of breath now, "are already done. In seven days, Haven will be officially abandoned." Obi-Wan drew a deep, shaky breath. "And I am very pleased that the boy and his grandfather are safe and will be able to return home so quickly. They have a lot to recover from. I wish . . ."

"I know," said the Master, when words seemed to fail the youth. "I know what you wish, but you need to remember that you gave the only gift you had to give, Obi-Wan - the gift that only you could give. And these people know it. You need to allow them a chance to express their gratitude."

"Gratitude?" There was no mistaking the bitterness that rose in the boy's voice. "I reached out and took the life of a child, Master Jinn, and, for that, they want to give me a medal. I find that . . . perverted, somehow."

"Obi-Wan," replied Qui-Gon, investing as much Force soothing into his voice as he could, "you need to let it go. You know - and I know - what you did and why you did it."

"What I did," came the sharp response, "was break the almighty Jedi Code, Master. I mean, I didn't just break it; I smashed it into tiny little splinters."

"Perhaps," agreed the Master, tone very bland now. "And I was never more proud of you than at that moment."

Unexpectedly, Obi-Wan gave a short bark of laughter. "You really are a rogue," he observed mildly.

Qui-Gon pointedly ignored the sound of soft, tender murmurs, as he answered. "So I'm told. Nevertheless, I should tell you how well you've done with the evac organization, Padawan. I'm pleased that you were able to co-ordinate such a massive effort so quickly."

"Was there anything else?"

The Master allowed himself a tiny sigh. "No, not really. When shall I expect you?" 

"You said, three days, right?"

"Yes, but there are other tasks you might . . . "

"We'll be there, in three days."

The channel went dead, and the Jedi Master noted the continuing absence of a viable link between him and his padawan. He knew that it still existed, could sense it in his mind, pulsating slightly, but deadly quiet. Blocked at the natural source. Blocked by the iron barriers of Obi-Wan's formidable mental shielding.

He had tried to listen to the voice of the Force; tried to find guidance and reassurance therein, but the Force, like the link, remained stubbornly silent. It refused to grant him any insight into the vagaries of time. It refused to tell him if that link would remain forever lifeless and cold.

It refused to offer him any solace for his fears.

He sighed heavily. If he didn't know better, he'd have thought he was being tormented deliberately, and he was abruptly reminded of an old, tired adage which Obi-Wan, for some reason, seemed to take some delight in, no matter that it was crude in the extreme. It seemed, he admitted to himself, that there was some measure of truth in it, after all.

Payback really was a bitch.

**************** ************* **************

Obi-Wan dropped his comm unit into the dewy grass, not really caring very much if it happened to get damaged by the moisture, and lay back beside his companion, his eyes lifting to stare into the magnificent spectacle of the heavens.

Beside him, Solitaire, draped in a long, silken, gossamer floating gown that was such a far cry from her customary practical garb that she was virtually transformed into a different person, turned to study his face in the starlight, as he smiled into her eyes. 

Looking at her at that moment, it was almost impossible to remember her as he had first seen her, faceless and ominous behind her heavy armor. Solitaire had changed, somehow, and not just in the manner of her dress. There was something inherently different about her now, and Obi-Wan wondered if he would ever be allowed to know what it was. For he was certain of one thing, if nothing else; the alteration was something she herself had allowed to happen; had encouraged, if she had not actually generated it, and disclosing the nature of the change was a choice totally dependent on her discretion.

For the moment, she chose to remain silent, completely different from the person she had been, but still masked somehow.

They had lain here together for the past two hours, content simply to enjoy the night, to talk or not as the mood struck them, to revel in the exquisite fragrances of night-blooming shrubs and the sweet, liquid music of nocturnal birds. Despite their previous liaison, their relationship seemed to have evolved, somehow, beyond the physical. Thus, even though he cradled her head against his shoulder and she braced her hands against his chest, there was nothing remotely sensual in the contact. They were simply happy and comfortable and at ease in each other's company.

"You're not staying," he said abruptly, "are you?"

She smiled and turned her gaze to lose itself in the spectacle above them. "Peace is breaking out all over," she replied. "Not much use for a weapons master, now is there?"

He chuckled softly, "According to Rain, Drimulan peace is roughly equivalent to Sith wars elsewhere. I'm sure there'll be plenty of work for you, if you choose to stay. Somebody needs to be around to make sure the new governors, whoever they may be, survive their first month in office."

But she was shaking her head. "I don't do political security," she assured him. "Probably because I never met a single politician that I didn't want to strangle at first sight."

He grinned. "My kind of woman," he said softly, "but don't repeat that. Without politicians, and their constant machinations, where would the Jedi be?"

She turned toward him again, eyes wide and solemn. "That sounds suspiciously like a derogatory remark. Are you actually questioning the motives of the Temple?"

"Me?" he replied, with exaggerated innocence. "I'm only a lowly padawan; it's certainly not my place to question why the Jedi do anything."

"Not even if it concerns you directly?"

"Especially not then," he replied, chuckling again, but there was no mistaking the faint trace of bitterness in his tone.

They were quiet then, for a while, losing themselves again in the incredible splendor of Haven's nightly feast for the senses.

"Where will you go then?" he asked finally. There was a tentative quality in his voice, as if he wished to display his concern for her, but feared that she might interpret it as an indication of scorn for her ability to take care of herself.

She grinned. "One thing there will never be a shortage of, in this galaxy or any other, is wars to fight and conflicts to resolve. I'll look around a bit, and choose my next cause when I'm ready."

"But never a cause of your own," he observed quietly. "Don't you ever get . . ."

"No."

"But . . ."

"No." She had no intention of allowing him to say it, just as she never said it herself. Loneliness, and the desire to fit into the life of a treasured someone, just didn't enter into it - and never would.

"How long?" she asked suddenly, noting the sweep of his lashes and the delightful reflection of the heavens' spectacle in his eyes, accomplishing the change of subject with a blatant disregard for subtlety.

"How long what?"

"How long are you going to make him dance for you?"

His gaze was suddenly sharp. "You think that's what I'm doing?"

She smiled. "To some degree, I do. Not that I blame you; he's got it coming. But, at the same time . . ."

"Go on," he said quietly.

She sat up, and hugged her knees to her chest. "I'm no romantic, Obi; I don't think I'm quite a cynic - yet - but I'm certainly a skeptic. So it takes me a while to be able to take something on faith."

"Okay," he replied, sitting up and facing her. "So what is it that you've taken on faith?"

"He loves you, Hon. Really, really loves you, and I really don't know if he can survive losing you."

Abruptly, the young Jedi stood and flashed her a grin. 

Before them, just flaring to brilliance under the light of a rising moon, a forest pool glinted invitingly. With one fluid movement, Obi-Wan had peeled off the ragged shorts he wore and plunged into the dark water, giving her a look that required no words to express the challenge in his eyes.

With a liquid laugh, Solitaire doffed her rather more elaborate garb and dove in after him.

As she surfaced, he was there, and they spent the next few minutes trying to drown each other in water that was blessedly cool and as soft as mist, but Solitaire remained basically undistracted. She could hardly have failed to notice that he had never answered her question.

*************** **************** *****************

Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn was in the grip of a massive bout of irritation. More than that. He remembered a favorite phrase that his padawan used frequently - much to the displeasure of the Master - but it seemed all too appropriate at the moment. The Master was ”pissed off". And worse still, he was pissed off at himself.

It was simply ridiculous, and totally unacceptable, for a senior Jedi to be caught up in what could only be described as a case of nerves.

For approximately the twentieth time, he forced himself to stop pacing the narrow confines of the small vestibule which opened into the docking facility that served the government complex in Eli'est, Drimula's new capitol city. He knew he needed to concentrate, to find his center.

_Right now, I'd have better luck finding compassion in a Hutt's heart._

He allowed himself the smallest trace of a smile, recognizing, albeit reluctantly, the farcical quality of the moment. Nobody, not even such gifted adepts as Master Yoda or Plo Koon, was more in tune with the Living Force than Qui-Gon Jinn, but now, for some inexplicable reason, the great energy field had become as skittish and timid as a pre-pubescent girl in a roomful of adolescent, testosterone-glutted boys. He not only couldn't access it; he couldn't even touch it.

Abjectly, he flopped down on a hard bench near the massive arched doorway, braced his elbows on his knees, and dropped his face into his hands.

"He's my padawan, for Force sake. And I've seen him virtually every day since he was thirteen years old. Why should I be so undone at the prospect of seeing him now?"

He straightened abruptly as he realized that he didn't really want to understand the answer to that question.

And now, there was no more time to ponder it anyway.

Obi-Wan was walking toward him, and it was time to put his speculation away and live in the moment.

Bars of sunlight streamed through slotted windows, and each seemed somehow brighter as the boy moved through them, as Qui-Gon allowed himself a few moments to simply feast his eyes.

He was thinner than he should have been, of course; the disease had wrought havoc throughout his body, and the weight loss would have to be overcome gradually. And there were still shadows of circles under his eyes, made more pronounced by the pallor that lingered in his face.

Qui-Gon found that he needed to steady himself with a deep breath finally, as he could see, ultimately, that the differences he could catalog were superficial; Obi-Wan was basically unchanged. He still moved with a steady elegance, still held himself wrapped in quiet dignity, still walked (in the immortal words of a young female padawan who had very nearly expired with mortification when she realized her comment had been widely heard) with a strut worthy of a high-priced pleasure slave. The same bright intelligence gleamed from eyes that appeared almost the color of rain in the light of the Drimulan sun; the same sardonic wit was evident in the slight curl of sculptured lips. 

He was still exquisitely beautiful, and the young vision of loveliness who strutted along beside him only served to emphasize the radiance of their combined presence.

Ciara, it should be noted, besides looking particularly luscious, was also looking intensely protective. Qui-Gon was forced to smother a smile; he had no doubt at all that Obi-Wan did not need, would never need, a bodyguard, but, for the moment, it appeared that he had acquired one. Was it possible that this was developing into an unfortunate tendency?

The Master's eyes were drawn once more to the face of his long-time apprentice, a face that, while perfectly calm and devoid of animosity, was, nevertheless, pointedly not smiling. 

Nevertheless, Obi-Wan, to the intense relief of his Master, was still Obi-Wan. Whether or not the padawan was still a padawan - or still _his_ padawan - remained to be seen.

As Qui-Gon rose, another figure stepped into view, having been concealed up to this point by the height of the young students in front of her.

Mirilent Soljan stared at Qui-Gon much as she would have studied a particularly vile micro-organism. Which, he thought, was probably pretty much what she thought of him.

The Jedi Master made a deliberate decision to ignore the Master healer as he stepped forward to greet his padawan, also ignoring the possibility that the title was no longer applicable.

Opting for optimism, Qui-Gon stopped just outside what would be considered Obi-Wan's personal space, and extended both hands. "You certainly look better than the last time I saw you, Padawan Mine."

Uh, oh. Possible mistake.

The pet name elicited a pained grimace, but the boy was altogether too polite to leave the Master standing with hands extended and ignored. Tentatively, he allowed his fingers to be enclosed in the Master's grasp, although the contact was entirely too fleeting for Qui-Gon's liking.

"Thank you, Master Qui-Gon," said the apprentice smoothly. "I'm feeling better, as well."

"I trust your flight was comfortable," ventured the Master, and suppressed a wince as he realized that he was resorting to small talk to avoid an uneasy silence.

But Obi-Wan merely smiled. "That's the only way the _Angel_ knows how to fly."

"Humph!" interjected Ciara Barosse. "For you, maybe. For the rest of us, it's more like a round on a roller coaster."

"You," he said with some small trace of asperity, "simply don't know how to talk to her."

Ciara paused just long enough to stick out her tongue. "I don't think it's my talking she's interested in. She's just a big pervert who's gone all horny for you, and she's only interested in the size of your . . ."

"Padawans," said Qui-Gon sternly, noting that they were drawing something of an audience, an audience that seemed primarily amused to realize that young Jedi were just as capable of indiscriminate foolishness as youth of any race or culture. "Shall we take this someplace less public?"

Mirilent leaned forward and peered into Obi-Wan's eyes, quickly noting the transparent quality of his skin. "And more horizontal," she barked.

"Why, Mira," said Master Jinn without missing a beat, "I'm shocked. And you a grandmother, and a pillar of the Temple."

"Humph," she huffed, completely immune to his sarcasm, "that's the problem with the Temple, you know. Too damn many pillars. However, that's neither here nor there; I want this child in bed, within the next five minutes, or I'm going to call for a stretcher and a sedative."

Qui-Gon favored his padawan with a sympathetic smile. "I think she's serious, Obi-Wan."

Young Kenobi glared at the Master healer. "You're enjoying this entirely too much," he grumbled. "I'm fine, and bullies should be forbidden to be healers."

"Take it up with the Council," she retorted. "Maybe you can get them to change the Code. In the meantime, you're not fine; you're pale as Alderaanian marble, and you're trembling with exhaustion. Flying that little love nest of yours may be orgasmically fulfilling, but it also wrings you out like a wet washcloth. So we can do this the easy way or . . ."

"Come along," said Qui-Gon. "I have a transport waiting, and the guest quarters are just minutes away."

"Is my Master here yet?" asked Ciara, as they made their way toward the exit. It was not lost on Qui-Gon that, despite her attempt at nonchalance, she never moved more than a few centimeters from Obi-Wan's side and she was constantly monitoring both his condition, and the shifting crowd around them.

"On final approach, I believe," replied Qui-Gon. "They should be down within the hour."

A small spark of satisfaction flared in her eyes, and Obi-Wan leaned toward her and dropped a quick kiss at her temple, which elicited a charming blush to stain her cheeks. "Thanks, Kiddo," he murmured, for her hearing only.

"I'll put it on your tab," she replied, reaching out to squeeze his arm.

Master Qui-Gon said nothing and appeared to be ignoring the exchange, but his Jedi senses had noted and observed every word, and he thought again that it was something of a shame that these two brilliant children apparently had no future together, beyond that of friends embarking on similar journeys.

Quickly, so quickly that he wasn't sure it was real, there was a swell of darkness in his mind, a huge, crushing sense of foreboding that seemed to reach out and wrap itself inexorably around the persona of Ciara Barosse, before dissipating completely.

Qui-Gon felt a split-second jolt of nausea; then it was gone, and all was as it had been, except for a taste of bitterness that settled in the back of his throat. 

It was nothing. He was not gifted in the grasp of the Unifying Force; he did not have visions. Usually.

It was only the stress of the situation, the lingering uncertainty about his padawan's decision.

That's all it was.

"Master Qui-Gon," said Ciara abruptly, "are you all right?"

"What?" he barked, louder than he'd intended. "Oh, yes, I'm fine. Just remembering something that I forgot to do. It's nothing."

Ciara was apparently mollified, but another pair of eyes had risen to regard him solemnly, rain gray eyes, filled with suspicion; eyes that knew the Master entirely too well to be so easily diverted.

The question would arise again, privately.

And the Master knew, without doubt, that he would not get off so easily a second time.

**************** ******************* ****************

The quarters set aside for the Jedi were large and opulent and much too elaborate for their tastes. For sentient beings taught from infancy to appreciate the value of simplicity and functionalism, the degree of ornamentation of the suites assigned for their use was almost overwhelming.

Obi-Wan stood in the bedroom to which Qui-Gon had shown him and gaped.

He was fairly certain that the bed would have comfortably held six good-sized humans, eight if they were friendly, and the carpet beneath his feet was so deep, it was almost like walking through drifts of soft snow. To his right, there were two huge arched doorways, leading to a terrace bright with comfortable seating, and tubs of brilliant flowers, and a small fountain, composed of descending ledges of rock, which dropped sheets of crystalline water into a small, free-form, stone-lined pool.

Off to his left, was a private 'fresher, complete with water shower, sonic shower, and a bathtub big enough to be shared by an entire low-grav hockey team, in full pads.

When Qui-Gon knocked and opened the door, he was not surprised to find that the boy had yet to follow healer's orders and ensconce himself in the regal bed.

"I trust," said the Master dryly, "that there's nothing you need that you can't find in here. Although you might wish to keep bread crumbs handy, for leaving a trail wherever you go, to guide you back."

Obi-Wan turned, and his eyes were filled with an uncertainty that the Jedi Master felt as a distinct pain. "You didn't ask me if I wanted to share a suite with you." It was not spoken as an accusation; merely an observation.

Qui-Gon sighed. "No, I didn't. I'm sorry if that offends you. I shouldn't have presumed."

The boy turned back to his inspection of the room. "No, you shouldn't."

"Old habits die hard, I guess."

Obi-Wan snickered softly. "Well, that's a first, anyway. On the day when Qui-Gon Jinn is reduced to clichés, the foundations of reality are surely at risk."

He moved to a gleaming, fliarawood cabinet, and peeked inside, to find a fully stocked wet-bar and a chiller bursting with delectable food stuffs.

"What," he said with a grin, "no personal chef? No private masseuse? No serving wench? You mean I actually have to get up and fill my own plate?"

"Frankly, Padawan," replied the Master, his smile offset by the pride and gravity in his eyes, "you can have anything you want, including all those things. The Drimulans are exceedingly grateful for . . . "

"Can we please just skip that?" The youth's voice was cold. "I don't want to discuss it again. I . . ."

"I'm sorry, Obi-Wan," said Qui-Gon. "Consider it skipped, but you need to remember that the Drimulans are not going to be so easily deterred. The ceremony is scheduled for tomorrow morning, and I'm afraid they're going to expect you to offer some kind of remarks in accepting the award. I did manage to fend off the press, for now, but . . ."

"How'd you do that? I sort of expected them to be all over me when we landed, not that I'm disappointed, you understand. But I am surprised."

Qui-Gon shrugged. "They don't know you're here yet. They think . . ."

"Think what?"

"That you're coming in on Dyprio's ship."

Obi-Wan froze, and turned to stare at the Master, who was busily projecting an aura of complete innocence.

The boy snickered softly. Then he chuckled, which generated a not entirely shame-faced grin on the Master's face. Which, in turn, changed the chuckle to a full-fledged guffaw.

"You didn't!" Obi-Wan could barely get the words out.

"I did."

"Poor Master Ramal!"

"Yes." Qui-Gon's sigh was spectacularly synthetic. "Poor thing."

By this time, Obi-Wan was collapsed on the floor, holding his sides, and gasping for breath. "He's going to . . . be ready . . . to take you apart with his bare hands."

"Good, I can use the work-out."

And Obi-Wan's laughter cut off sharply, as he looked up into midnight blue eyes, warm now with the reflection of the boy's mirth. He rose quickly and came to stand almost toe-to-toe with the Jedi Master, and turned the considerable power of his gaze to a study of Qui-Gon's face.

"Have you missed me, Master Jinn?"

"Stop that!" snapped Qui-Gon. "Just stop!"

"Stop what?" Obviously, the young man was not going to back down, from anything.

"Don't call me that, and you know what I mean. And don't ask me stupid questions. Of course, I've missed you."

Obi-Wan's smile was bittersweet. "But only since you discovered that your latest candidate for legacy-status is a fraud. Right?"

Qui-Gon sighed. "How long are we going to go through this, Padawan? How long before you get tired of reliving the past, and let it go?"

Obi-Wan turned and walked to the terrace doors, to stare out over a cityscape just touched by the first gloom of twilight. "Until I feel something," he answered, one hand grasped against his chest. "In here."

"What? What did you say?"

Huge eyes, blue-green now in the dimness of the suite, turned to regard the Master, and blinked rapidly to deflect the swelling of tears. "I don't feel anything, any more, Master Qui-Gon. I'm just . . . empty."

Qui-Gon felt something very fundamental, very basic to his own mindset, shift and tremble within him, and he moved quickly to sit on the edge of the huge bed.

He had not anticipated this, had not realized how severely traumatized his student had been, by all the events leading up to this moment. But he knew immediately that he should have expected it. Any one of the individual traumas would almost certainly not have been enough to sever Obi-Wan's connection to his most basic strengths; possibly even a combination of two or three would have been insufficient; few indeed were those who could equal the boy for sheer Force purity or brilliance. But the combination of everything that had happened, added to the weakness brought on by his illness, had proved to be too much.

Regardless of the certainty he had grasped earlier, the Master now knew huge, gaping chasms of doubt. Perhaps Obi-Wan truly was not the same Obi-Wan any longer.

The padawan watched the Master's reactions to his words for a few minutes before turning back to the view beyond the terrace. When he spoke again, there was no inflection in his words. "I've loved you, as my Master, my father, my companion, and my dearest friend, since I was thirteen years old. You were everything to me - my world, my life, my future. Everything."

Drawing a deep breath that was somehow excruciatingly painful, Qui-Gon rose and went to stand behind the youth, laying his hands on young shoulders that now seemed too fragile to support the burden they carried.

"And now?" said the Master, bracing himself for whatever the response might be.

Obi-Wan sighed, very gently. "I'm sorry. I know what you want me to say. I know what I wish I could say, but . . . ."

"You feel nothing," said Qui-Gon when it became obvious that the boy could not continue. Ignoring the devastation rising within him, the Master continued, "I won't force the issue, of course. If the bond between us is damaged beyond repair, as it seems, I will go to the Council and petition for a new Master to be provided for you. I can help . . ."

"No," said Obi-Wan firmly, "you don't understand. I don't want a new Master."

Qui-Gon found that he couldn't entirely suppress the bright flare of confusion that spiked through his consciousness, and probably through Obi-Wan's as well.

"I'm sorry. I don't understand, Obi-Wan. You obviously don't want to continue training with me, so what else. . ."

"The truth is," said the young man, "that I may not want to continue training at all."

The Jedi Master actually staggered slightly, as a dense blanket of smothering blackness swelled to still his thoughts and attempt to divide him from his connection to the Force. 

"No." He found himself unable to speak, beyond that single word. This could not be; this must not be. Whatever else he might have expected; whatever he might have feared, it had never even come close to this level of anguish.

Obi-Wan Kenobi was meant to be a Jedi; if he knew nothing else in life, Qui-Gon Jinn knew this one true thing.

Abruptly, he sank to his knees, succumbing to a numbing nausea that seemed to grip him with cold, greedy fingers.

"No," he said again.

It could not happen again; he could not be responsible for the loss of another child who was meant to be Jedi, and whose only obstacle to that goal was the identity of the Master who provided the necessary training. He could not lose another one; he could not.

And then, like the culmination of a sweet dream, his padawan was there beside him, encircling him with young, strong arms. "Please don't do that, Master," said that beautiful, cultured voice. "Please, get up. If I try to lift you, Mira is going to kill us both. She has spies everywhere, you know."

With a ragged breath, Qui-Gon allowed himself to be coaxed to his feet, and then to the depths of a plush, super-size easy chair that sat beside the gargantuan bed. "Obi-Wan," he said softly, still fighting for breath.

"It's OK, Master," said the youth. "I didn't mean it. Everything will be just fine. You'll see. Everything is all right."

The elder Jedi raised his gaze to study his young companion, to stare into the depths of those luminous eyes which had always been so easy for him to read, or so he had believed at the time, and saw the curtains drop into place. Saw the shielding go up, but, this time, not quite fast enough. It was as immaculate, as perfect as always; it was just a trifle late.

The boy wasn't lying, exactly. Everything would be all right, from a certain point of view.

Qui-Gon felt a sob rise in his throat, and knew he dared not allow it to escape his lips; dared not disclose that he had understood the bleak truth that his young apprentice had covered so quickly.

In the end, barring the unforeseen, Obi-Wan would come back to him and back to the Jedi, but he would never be mended. For the truth - the black, blinding, horrible truth - was that he really had lost the capacity to care whether or not he completed his training, had lost the capacity to trust and believe in the bond he shared with his Master, had lost the capacity to feel the sense of loyalty and belonging and camaraderie that made up the Jedi experience. There was, unfortunately, only one capacity that he had not lost, the capacity so personally designed and bestowed on him by his crafty Master, the capacity to feel guilty for the pain he had seen in the Master's heart when he had made his startling announcement.

It would cost him every ounce of joy that might have been a part of his life.

Obi-Wan would fulfill his destiny; he would be what the Jedi needed him to be, what his Master needed him to be.

But he would never recover from the wounds they had inflicted on him, would never be what he needed to be, for himself.

The Jedi Master rose abruptly, and, with just a slight pat on the shoulder for his padawan, was gone, striding purposefully through the suite, and out into the corridor, and farther still, out into the streets of the city, where he began to run, with Force-enhanced speed.

He ran full out for a very long time, arriving finally at the edge of a river, an ugly roiling slash of a river, thick and acrid with the stench of chemical pollutants. And he stood then, staring out across dark, viscous waters, and knew futility. He had run as far and as fast as he could, and escaped nothing.

The choice still lay before him, and he knew that, ultimately, he alone could make it. He could, probably would, consult with Master Yoda, but, in the end, the action would be his to take or to reject.

The options were ridiculously simple. He could open his heart and tell his padawan the truth; a truth that would undoubtedly generate great pain and suffering within the boy, not to mention a towering rage, but a truth that would, ultimately, set him free. A truth that would root out and destroy, once and for all, Obi-Wan's tendency to blame himself for all the wrongs of the galaxy and, more specifically, for everything that ever caused any measure of discomfort for his Master. It would release and destroy all the notions of inadequacy and unworthiness that the boy had secreted within his heart; it would heal old wounds that had never had a chance to heal, but only been buried under festering scar tissue.

It would do all that.

And it would, also, very probably, drive the boy away from the Jedi forever, for it would show him in a completely objective, unambiguous way, that he had, indeed, been the victim of a conspiracy, a conspiracy of silence that allowed him, even encouraged him, to take on burdens that were never meant to be borne by his resilient young spirit.

All in the name of expediency. 

All in the name of sparing the delicate sensibilities of one Jedi Master.

Qui-Gon knelt in the noxious mud there beside that sludge-filled river, and looked deep into his own heart. Somehow, he knew instinctively that it was not the Force that he needed now, not external guidance. What he needed to see and to explore was buried deep within himself, concealed beneath layer upon layer of repression and deliberate emotional camouflage. What he needed to see was the person, the man, who formed the foundation of who he was, on a primitive level where there was no Jedi code, no lofty philosophy, no esoteric logic.

He went in search of Qui-Gon Jinn, and found him, but not without difficulty.

It was several hours later when he rose and turned back toward the city. He must speak to Master Yoda; that was the first order of business, although he knew it was a waste of time. He needed no gift of prophecy to predict what the troll would say.

Obi-Wan must fulfill his destiny; for the sake of the Jedi, he must not be allowed to turn away from the future that fate decreed for him.

But Yoda was not here, and Yoda had not seen what lay within Obi-Wan's heart. Would almost certainly never see it, the boy's shielding was entirely too powerful to allow anyone to take casual strolls through his thoughts. 

Whatever the young man believed, and the Master decided somewhat arbitrarily that he would not dwell too much on that, the truth was that Qui-Gon really did love his student, more, perhaps, than even he had realized before this horrible day. Loved him for the fine strong individual he was, and for the purity and virtue of a soul untarnished by greed or ambition or personal prejudice. Loved him because he was, in the final analysis, among the best of them all, completely untainted by the political chicanery and corruption that had stained and twisted so many among the Jedi.

The choice had become even simpler during the hours spent on his knees in the mud.

He loved his padawan. The question was, did he love him enough? Could he ignore the risk that the revelation would pose to the future of the Jedi, and tell the boy the whole truth, the truth that would free his spirit from the cage that the Master himself had constructed?

It was a dilemma as old as recorded time, the problem without solution for a man of good character. Facing such a choice, should one simply do the right thing, ignoring the consequences, no matter how horrendous, or consider the greater good, and sacrifice what is right for what is necessary?

Qui-Gon sighed heavily as he trudged through the darkness, unable to find even some small trace of solace, for he refused to allow his mind to gloss over the one, unavoidable truth inherent in his decision; the sacrifice, should it be made, would not be voluntary; it would be inflicted, with cold deliberation, on a gentle soul whose only flaw was a willingness to accept responsibilities that others refused.

Before him, two paths diverged, each arising spontaneously from an act of betrayal. The only question remaining was which betrayal could he ultimately live with?

*********** ****************** ***************

Obi-Wan moved through the press of the crowd with an appropriate smile plastered on his face. He responded when addressed, charmed those who sought to be charmed, soothed those who needed soothing, stroked egos that required stroking, and remembered none of it. He was OBR, as he and his crèche mates had once termed it, in a moment of cynicism far beyond their tender years. OBR - operating by rote.

The ribboned medal so proudly proffered by the president pro-tem of the Drimulan Parliament hung around his neck, its garish design catching and refracting the light of the brilliant morning sun pouring through the sweeping glass walls of the chamber, and splashing the crowd with whirls of bright color as he moved; he thought it must have weighed in at about five pounds.

He had accepted the honor with a diffidence that must have been pleasing to the Jedi Council, most of whom were present via the magic of holo-vid, and made his pretty little acceptance speech, written on the back of a napkin by the ever-verbose Ciara Barosse during the Drimulan leader's introductory remarks. He had pointedly ignored the increasingly grotesque facial contortions of his fellow padawan as he gazed into the holocams, speaking the words she had written for him just moments before.

The speech had been brief, and quite charming, and he had absolutely no idea what he had said. He remembered catching a glimpse of the sardonic smile on Arain Fer'mia's face as he turned away from the podium, but everything else was just a blur of pale shadows.

He increased his pace as he drew near the exit of the parliamentary chamber, eager suddenly to be anywhere where other people were not, especially people who seemed to have no other purpose in life than to reach out and touch him with eager fingers. Briefly, he felt a twinge of shame as he realized that he had no reason to dislike the members of this crowd; they had offered him nothing but their approbation and esteem, and the fact that he found the entire affair to be a distasteful display of gratuitous posturing was certainly not their fault.

Nevertheless, when the huge doors leading to the rotunda of the government building swung open, he was through them and racing toward the exit to the public gardens, with Ciara sprinting to keep pace. When the two burst into the liquid brilliance of the morning, they were laughing, and moving almost too fast for the naked eye to follow.

Their headlong flight came to a halt that was almost screeching as they were confronted by two frowning Jedi Masters, neither of whom looked particularly pleased with life in general at that particular moment.

Obi-Wan quickly suppressed an urge to grin at the sight of Master Ramal's somewhat singular haircut, a concession to necessity dictated by his rather disconcerting clash with certain members of the electronic media, following his landing at the space port the previous day. The look, thought Obi-Wan, gave a whole new meaning to the term 'tearing one's hair out'. While he was certainly not bald, the swarthy Corellian Jedi was considerably less hirsute than he had been when previously encountered.

And something lurking deep in Dyprio's eyes suggested that Master Qui-Gon Jinn would do well to watch his back, for the foreseeable future.

But Jinn seemed oblivious to his colleague's simmering outrage, and to virtually everything else, if Obi-Wan were any judge. Something had happened during the night, something that had wrought a fundamental alteration in Qui-Gon's Force aura, and Obi-Wan found, to his surprise, that the possibility of such a thing had frightened him to the core of his being.

Qui-Gon Jinn was like the speed of light; like the law of gravity; like the chemical formula for water. Qui-Gon Jinn was changeless, ageless, immutable - a universal constant. And, if, by some miraculous happenstance, he was not, what hope was there for anyone or anything else? If Master Jinn could change, then there were no universal constants.

A call had come in to the com-unit in their suite during the early morning hours, a call from Coruscant, probably in response to a message sent earlier by the Master.

Obi-Wan had heard the electronic summons, had managed to struggle to a state of semi-wakefulness, had even staggered out of the warm cocoon of his gigantic bed, to move silently to the doorway of his room and watch as Qui-Gon answered the call. But when he had noted that the caller was Master Yoda, the youth had decided, abruptly, that he wasn't in fit condition to be puzzling over inverted syntax, and gladly retreated to his nest of welcoming blankets. 

If he had been advised that, following that conversation, his Master had come into his room and stood for several minutes simply gazing down at his sleeping form, he would have been skeptical in the extreme. On the surface, it would have appeared to be a sentimental gesture, and Master Qui-Gon tended to be impatient and dismissive of sentiment in general and especially as it pertained to his padawan.

Mentally cataloging clichés about old catlings not learning new tricks, and tigrelles not changing their stripes, and a dozen others of similar nature, Obi-Wan climbed into the transport vehicle that was waiting at the base of the rotunda steps, issuing a soft "Oof!" as Ciara followed him in and managed to land on top of him. Arain Fer'mia, already comfortably ensconced in the front seat, beside Solitaire who was at the controls, turned to greet them. "Stirring speech, Obi. Very inspiring." 

"Oh, shut up," mumbled the youth, knowing sarcasm when he heard it.

When the two Masters were safely aboard, Solitaire lost no time in whisking them away towards the spaceport.

"Obi-Wan," said Master Ramal smoothly, "what's pleachle tart?"

"Pardon me?" The youth looked completely puzzled.

"In your speech, you said something about the Drimulans' desire to foster progress and reform being as 'thick as pleachle tart'. So, I was just wondering, what's pleachle tart?"

Obi-Wan and Ciara exchanged rueful looks, and spoke together. "Busted."

"How did you know?" asked the young man, looking at Ramal with a disarming grin.

"Because pleachle tart, so far as I know, is only available on Serianus, where Ciara goes every year to visit with her family, and your pretty little co-conspirator there happens to like pleachle tart better than . . ."

"Sex," supplied the co-conspirator in question, completely oblivious to the bright flush that stained the faces of both Jedi Masters as a result of her brazen little remark.

Obi-Wan, however, noted the response with a devious grin and filed it away for future exploration. _Are we really so different from them?_ he wondered. _Or are we just less inhibited about what we think and feel, and say?_

His eyes actually widened slightly as he recognized the oddity of his thought. Qui-Gon Jinn, inhibited? Surely not, and yet, the faint rosy glow of his discomfiture was still visible in the Master's face. 

In marked contrast to the reaction of the Masters, Arain Fer'mia was making no attempt to conceal his amusement, and Obi-Wan - observant as always - caught a glimpse of something in the Drimulan's eyes that said that if Ciara weren't Jedi and weren't quite so young . . . and weren't as prickly as Malastairian cactus . . . that there might be at least a bit of slap and tickle in the offing, if not something even more intense.

For some reason, that thought bothered the young Jedi, more than he wanted to admit. "Is the _Lady_ ready, Rain?"

The Drimulan grinned. "Like her Master, the _Lady_ was born ready."

Abruptly, the aircar swerved violently to the left and leapt skyward, as Solitaire fought the controls. "Where the frick did you learn to drive, you son of a Sith?" yelled the Weapons Master, looking as if she wished she were packing the equivalent of a Stage 3 laser rifle to be used for the express purpose of taking out idiot drivers who strayed into her path.

When the vehicle settled back into its niche in the traffic pattern, she glanced over her shoulder. "Sorry," she snapped. "It wasn't my fault."

"Madame, might I suggest . . ."

Master Jinn got no further, as she turned to confront him with eyes narrowed to mere slits . . . and almost ran down a merging speeder bike in the process.

The Jedi Master decided abruptly that he was better off just not knowing, and turned back to study the face of his apprentice. "Obi-Wan," he said finally, "are you sure about this? It's enormously generous of you, but hardly necessary. Other arrangements could be made."

Serenity had been hard to come by lately, for the bewildered padawan, but there was nothing but certainty in his voice and in his eyes, as he answered. "Other arrangements, maybe, but none as reliable. I'm sure, Master. The _Angel_ will make sure they're delivered safely. No other ship could make that guarantee."

"Wow!" said the irrepressible Ciara.

"What?" Obi-Wan was afraid to ask, but he knew that the lack of a straight man would never stop her.

"The hits just keep on coming," she snapped. "First someone gives you a ship. I mean, I've never known anyone who was just given a ship. And not just any ship, either. Oh, no. A semi-sentient, Force-using, medical miracle, bossy little bitch-of-a-ship that could probably flash-fry the stabilizers off any smuggler's custom job ever built. And now, frosting on the cake, you just casually give it away. Is there a pre-padawan course at the Temple that I somehow missed out on, on how to get the really big perks, and where do I go to sign up?"

Obi-Wan decided that the prudent course to follow was to ignore her, and hope she'd just go away. Then it occurred to him that he'd been using the same tactic for over ten years, and it hadn't worked yet.

"How are the children?" he asked, looking over at Ramal Dyprio.

The big Corellian shrugged. "I think the operative phrase is, as well as can be expected. They've been uprooted from everything they've ever known. How would you be?"

"Panicked?" That was Ciara, showing a trace of the concern that Obi-Wan knew loomed huge and dark within her, even if she refused to demonstrate it.

"No." Dyprio frowned at his counterpart who seemed to have developed an inordinate interest in the traffic breezing along beside them. "They were put off a bit by the avalanche of press people when we landed, but they adapt pretty quickly. Not much seems to get under their skin."

"Yeah," said Obi-Wan pensively. "I remember how controlled they were."

"Still are," volunteered Master Ramal, "even with the collars still engaged."

The young Jedi sighed. "I wish that weren't necessary."

"So do I," said Qui-Gon Jinn suddenly, emerging from whatever deep thoughts had snagged his attention, "but it'll be over soon."

Obi-Wan hesitated briefly, before looking up into Ramal's dark eyes. "Oomy?"

The Corellian Master's face was transformed by a wave of gentleness. "Perfect. Incredible. Exquisite."

The younger Jedi's smile was poignantly beautiful. "Yes."

"And bossy," said Dyprio with a grin. "In case I forgot to mention it."

Sea-change eyes, almost quartz green today, darted quickly toward the brooding Master who had returned to his inspection of the passing scenery. "Xani?" he asked quietly, and pretended not to notice the very slight hiss of rapidly indrawn breath that escaped that still figure.

"Very subdued," replied the Corellian, also glancing toward his counterpart. "Stays in his cabin for the most part. Talks little; says less. The only person he's asked about is you."

Qui-Gon turned abruptly, thinking that he had been addressed but the Corellian's eyes remained firmly fixed on Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan suppressed a sigh, and pretended he had not seen the brief flare of pain in his Master's eyes. "Will we be we able to take off immediately?"

"Not quite," supplied Arain Fer'mia. "There are still a couple of members of your adoring public who want to say thanks."

"Oh, please," groaned the youth, "can't we just sneak out, or something?"

"Hard to sneak the _Lady_ out of anywhere, Mate. Can't exactly throw a blanket over her, and hope nobody notices. Besides, I think you might just want to say hello to this bunch."

Obi-Wan met the Drimulan's eyes, and saw nothing but warmth and acceptance there, and felt, once again, how easy it would be to simply accept the offers the man had made so frequently and spend the rest of his life in the service of someone who believed in him - and wanted him.

"Mer'lioz? Devlyn?" he asked with a small smile. 

"In the flesh, and restored to full health. Parai can't say enough about the genius of the Jedi healers."

Both Obi-Wan and Ciara groaned loudly. "Let's just keep that to ourselves, shall we?" said Ciara. "Our resident physician definitely does not require any further ego enhancement."

"Speaking of whom," said Obi-Wan, "where is the little goblin?"

Qui-Gon Jinn sat bolt upright, and emitted a strange, keening sound that might have been a groan, while Obi-Wan went bright crimson in the effort to suppress a burst of nearly uncontrollable laughter.

"What?" demanded Ciara, looking back and forth between perturbed Master and near-to-bursting apprentice.

"He . . ." Obi-Wan drew a deep shuddering breath, and tried again. "He . . . forgot her."

Ramal Dyprio turned quickly to stare at his colleague. "You didn't?"

Qui-Gon sighed. "I'm afraid so. She just slipped my mind."

The Corellian Master grinned, then chuckled. "I'd say that ought to pretty much make up for the stunt with the press. I got off with a weird hair-cut. By the time she's finished with you, you'll be lucky if you're not as bald as Mace Windu."

 

**************** ****************** ****************

The _Lady Ghost_ and the _Morning Angel_ sat side by side in the great hangar, both aswarm with maintenance crews, although, in the case of the latter, the crews were more inclined to point and stare and try to reverse-engineer in the few minutes available to them, than to actually do anything to maintain the sleek little vessel. Even if they had tried to perform routine tasks on her, it was doubtful that the _Angel_ would have allowed it; she barely tolerated their encroachment on her outer hull, and absolutely forbade any unauthorized trespass into her interior.

Authorization, of course, was almost impossible to come by, seeing as how it was the _Angel_ herself who was the only one empowered to grant it. Except, of course, for Obi-Wan, who had been missing in action since the previous day.

Therefore, when the Jedi group arrived in the docking bay, a small crowd was gathered around a disgruntled twi'lek flight mechanic who was sitting beside the _Angel_ 's boarding ramp, nursing a blister on his shin.

"What happened here?" asked Master Qui-Gon, as the spectators parted before his approach.

 _Rather,_ thought Obi-Wan, stifling a smile, _like pigeons scattering in the path of a great, prowling catling_.

"Kriffing ship zapped me with a stinger," replied the twi'lek, obviously incensed.

"You tried to board her," said Obi-Wan steadily. It was not a question.

"Hey," said the mechanic defensively, "I'm a maintenance tech. That's what we do, ya know. Maintenance. And . . ."

"Did anyone tell you to work on this particular ship?" asked Qui-Gon, not caring much for the slight smoldering anger he read in Obi-Wan's demeanor.

"No, but . . ."

"No," said Obi-Wan, leaning forward now and fixing the twi'lek with a gaze thick with ice crystals. "Which means that you don't. You stay away from my ship."

He straightened abruptly, prompting Ciara Barosse to reach up and whisper in his ear, "Grrrr! You masterful thing. I think I'm getting physically aroused."

Which did exactly what she had intended, of course, reducing him to helpless laughter.

Moments later, as the remainder of the group proceeded to board the _Lady Ghost_ , the two padawans moved into the _Angel_ 's interior, and Ciara could have sworn she detected an ecstatic sigh from the vessel's AI unit.

"Will you stop?" said Obi-Wan querulously. "She did not sigh!"

Ciara stared at him with eyes wide and slightly alarmed. "You know, either our bond to each other is getting stronger, or you're turning into a real adept, Obi, and I'm not sure I like either option."

"What are you talking about?"

"You just read my thoughts, and I wasn't projecting," she replied.

"No, I didn't. You were speaking aloud."

"No, I wasn't."

He paused and turned to peer into her face. "Are you sure?"

"Duh! I think I'd know, don't you? I mean it was _my_ mouth that wasn't moving."

He was silent for a moment, deep in thought. "What do you suppose it means?"

She shrugged. "Since there's about as much chance of a romantic attachment between the two of us as of either one of us willingly bonding with a Hutt, I think it means you're developing some unexpected new skills, Toots."

He turned away and moved into the cockpit, without comment, but something in the set of his shoulders - or the shadow in his eyes - said that this was a development he would have been just as happy to do without, but it was obvious that it was something he preferred not to discuss.

"You planning to take her into the _Lady_ 's shuttle bay as soon as we make orbit?" she asked, as he dropped into the pilot's seat.

"No," he said absently, slipping his hands into the control interface. "I'm going to fly her."

"Easier - and smarter, probably - to just hitch a ride," she pointed out.

"I know," he said softly, "but my way, I get a chance to say good-bye - privately."

Ciara's eyes softened as she turned to look at her dear, old friend. "You really love her, don't you?"

"What's not to love?" he retorted, with a smile. "I'm really going to miss her."

"It's not too late to change your mind," she pointed out.

In the manner of someone caressing a beloved pet, Obi-Wan removed his hands from the interface field and stroked the surface of the instrument panels that comprised the helm station. "Yes, it is," he sighed. "I can't keep her. You know that. Jedi aren't allowed."

She spun abruptly to face him. "It's definite then? You've actually decided to come back?"

His eyes were distant, unfocused. "Let's just say that it was decided for me. I can't . . ."

And huge, screaming, flashing alarms howled in Ciara's mind. "Can't what?" she demanded, suspicions raging. 

"Never mind."

"Don't tell me that," she snapped. "Do not tell me you let him do it to you again, Obi-Wan."

"Do what?" He was trying to pretend he had no idea where she was leading, but she knew better.

"Tell me something, Dimbo," she practically growled. "Does that half-wit, doe-eyed gullibility bit ever work? Because it's sure not working now. You know exactly what I mean. He pulled the perfect strings to send you on your own personal tour of your favorite tourist attraction of all time - your guilty conscience. Didn't he?"

"Ciara, he didn't," he replied, allowing a trace of his own resentment to flavor his words. "You don't know . . ."

"Then tell me, for gods' sake," she shouted. "Open up, and tell me. Obi-Wan, you've spent your whole life holding everything inside, sparing everybody else's feelings, and carrying loads far too heavy for one person to bear. So now you listen to me, for a change. There is nobody - _nobody_ \- who wants you to become a Jedi knight more than I do. I know, with my whole heart, that it's what you were meant to do. That if somebody looked up Jedi knight in the dictionary, there'd be a picture of you there to define it. But - and listen well here, for this is the heart of this whole mess - it's only right, if it's what you want. Understand? What you want. Not what Qui-Gon wants, or what the Council wants, or what the Chancellor wants. Or what I want, for Force' sake. What _you_ want - and I refuse to allow you to let him use emotional blackmail to force you into making the choice he wants you to make."

"And what if I don't know what I want?" he asked quietly, his eyes dark and wounded.

She heaved a deep breath. "Then you take the time to figure it out, no matter how long it takes."

He turned to stare at her, before reaching out to tuck her padawan braid behind her ear. "Tell me again," he said with a gentle smile, "why we were never lovers."

"Eeeyyuooo!" she replied, wrinkling her nose. "Barf time. Serious mush alert. Incest, Kenobi. I have absolutely no interest in screwing my brother."

"Fair enough," he agreed, "but I really don't know what I'd do without you."

"Be hopelessly lost, constantly flummoxed, and completely bamboozled," she responded. "Now finish up here, and let's go greet the kiddies. It'll be good to see Oomy again."

And again, there was a flash of something unidentifiable in Obi-Wan's eyes. "Yes, it will."

Ciara leaned forward and tapped the end of his nose with a gentle forefinger. "One of these days," she said softly, "you're going to explain all this to me."

"Explain what?"

"Why the mention of a ten-year-old child's name causes your heartbeat, blood pressure, and respirations to spike, and your eyes to look like someone has just sliced and diced your pet kitling."

But, contrary to her hopes and expectations, there was no flare of warmth or rueful humor in his face. If anything, the trace of sadness that had touched him seemed to deepen and imbed itself more firmly in his consciousness.

And the girl realized suddenly that, this time, at least, she was wrong: whatever the reason for this startling effect, Obi-Wan was never going to explain it, and she was very probably never going to understand. She found, suddenly, that she was content with that knowledge; some things were simply too deep, too profoundly personal to be shared, even among best friends. For some things, there were no words.

************* *************** *****************

Devlyn Fer'mia was barely recognizable as the battered, beaten, mangled child who had been whisked away from his home planet barely a handful of days before. The boy had obviously undergone intense healing therapy from Jedi physicians, not to mention some not-too-discreet fattening up by the cooks in the Temple cafeteria.

He waited anxiously at the side of his grandfather, who was the essence of serenity and confidence. The same could hardly be said of the boy, who was at once nervous and exhilarated. He remembered little of the nightmare that had preceded his journey out of a pit of pain and despair, but he remembered one thing with crystal clarity: the young man who had lifted him out of that incredible torment.

The boy was muttering to himself as he waited, and his grandfather, Mer'lioz - high priest of the Brak'lira - bent to whisper in his ear. "Be calm, Child. He will be here soon."

"What do I say to him, Parei?" asked the boy, eyes wide with uncertainty. "How do you say thank you, for something like this?"

Mer'lioz smiled, and circled the child's thin shoulders with a strong arm. "As in all things, Grandson, in the manner that your heart decrees. Speak truth, and he will be pleased."

"You speak as if he knows our ways, Parei. But he is an outworlder, so how . . ."

"He is exactly as we are," said the priest, slightly stern now. "A child of the maker of all things and as pure of heart as any among us. Open your heart, and you will feel his place in the great design of our lives, as I have."

The boy flushed slightly, accepting the gentle rebuke with good grace. Obi-Wan had come into the darkness of his nightmare and brought him once more into the purity of the light, and he would not question whether or not it was appropriate for an outworlder to do so. Mer'lioz obviously harbored no doubts, and such judgments were hardly the province of beardless youth.

A flurry of rapid footsteps heralded the arrival of the Jedi padawans, who raced up the _Lady'_ s boarding ramp with an abundance of youthful exuberance, to the accompaniment of friendly laughter. Obi-Wan appeared highly amused at the anecdote the young woman at his side was unable to complete due to an uncontrollable burst of giggles.

But the laughter died on his lips as he lifted his eyes and spied the Drimulan priest and his grandson. Amusement was immediately replaced with warmth and a pulse of pure joy as he hurried forward.

"Young Kenobi," said Mer'lioz, catching the Jedi apprentice up in a massive bear hug, "you are looking considerably better than when I saw you last."

Obi-Wan diffidently extracted himself from the warmth of the encircling arms and dropped to his knees. "Parei," he said softly, lowering his head and touching the hem of the priest's tunic, "I must beg your forgiveness. I was unable to save Jhevaghn and Cayle. I tried, but I wasn't strong enough to . . . ."

"Hush, Child," said the priest, somewhat harshly. "You demean yourself and them by denying the tender mercy with which you touched their souls." The elder Drimulan knelt, and leaned forward until his forehead touched the crown of the young Jedi's head. "My daughter rests now," he whispered, "thanks to you, and the child lies safely in her arms, unscarred by agony or cruelty. You saved them, Obi-Wan, and you inspired a world to save itself. I will not listen to any recitation of the wrongs you imagine you have done."

Moving with a strength that belied his age, the priest rose to his feet, dragging the young Jedi up with him, then turned the youth to face the boy waiting with scarcely concealed impatience, at his side.

"Behold the miracle crafted by your hands, Young One," whispered Mer'lioz, nudging Obi-Wan toward the Drimulan child.

"Hello, Devlyn," said the apprentice with a small smile. "I'm glad to see you looking so well. I hope the Jedi healers were gentle."

The boy swallowed, loudly, and Obi-Wan almost winced at the intensity of the blatant hero-worship in the child's eyes. "They were," he managed to reply, "except for the one I just met here. She seems a little . . . rough around the edges."

Obi-Wan laughed. "That's probably the nicest thing anybody ever said about Mirilent Soljan."

"Padawan Kenobi," said the boy, in a rush, as if afraid words would fail him, "I don't know how to begin to thank you for what you did. For me, of course. But mostly, for my mother and my brother. I saw the holo-tapes; I know what you did, and I don't think I've ever seen anybody act so bravely or so unselfishly."

"Devlyn," said the young Jedi, patently uneasy with the boy's sentiments, " I don't . . ."

"No," said Devlyn firmly, "please let me finish. This is something I need to say."

Obi-Wan was silent for a moment as he studied the boy's face. Then he nodded, suppressing a resigned sigh. "I know that I'm very young," said Devlyn, "and the future is uncertain. But I came back to Drimula to help my grandfather find a way to rebuild our world and to make sure that horrors like those behind us can never happen again. I promise you that I will do everything in my power to reform our civilization into a place worthy of the sacrifice made by my mother and the thousands of others like her. One day, I will be a force to be reckoned with in our society, and I will never forget the debt that I owe. For as long as a single member of the Fer'mia clan survives on Drimula, you will be welcomed here, as our brother, and a revered warrior of the Brak'lira."

The young Jedi found himself without breath, or the mental faculty for speech. "I . . . don't know what to say," he said finally, overwhelmed by the generous spirit of a people so recently devastated, but so quick to pay homage to one not of their own.

"Say thank you, young Kenobi," said Arain Fer'mia, coming toward them, with Masters Jinn and Dyprio at his side, "and tell the Jedi that they've been trumped. You've just been declared a knight of the Brak'lira discipline."

Still speechless, Obi-Wan finally settled for a sweet smile, and noticed that there was a faint whoosh, as if someone had been forced to gasp for breath. Ramal Dyprio took a moment to glance at his stalwart fellow Master; stalwart, indeed, as always, but was that just the tiniest quiver of the nostrils, accompanied by a barely-there flicker of thick-lashed eyelids? Dyprio wasn't sure, but a quick probe extended toward his fellow Master was deflected by shielding more appropriate to a Sith-war battlefield than a casual exchange of remarks between acquaintances.

But there was suddenly no more time for inspection, introspection, circumspection, or speculation as a tiny blur of pure energy raced toward them at what could only be Force-enhanced speed, and hurled itself into Obi-Wan's arms, propelling him backwards to land - hard - against the bulkhead.

Noting that he would have a whole new crop of bruises tomorrow, Obi-Wan laughed with undiluted happiness as Oomy threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in the hollow of his throat.

"Hello, Precious," he breathed, and felt a sense of completion swell within him, as he cradled her against his shoulder.

"My Obi," she crooned softly, happily.

"Your Obi," he agreed, oblivious at that moment of everything and everyone around him.

She drew back then, and looked up at him with eyes that were a perfect mirror of those in his memory. "How long?" she asked.

He didn't pretend to misunderstand. "Four days, Princess."

"Four days," she echoed in a tone of wonder. "Four days, til forever. I spend them with you."

And he didn't hesitate. "Yes. Just the two of us. You come along with me. I have an angel I want you to meet."

As he started toward the exit, the little girl clinging to him with complete trust, Qui-Gon stepped forward, his eyes dark with concern and reflected anguish. "Padawan, I don't know if . . .."

"Four days, Captain Fer'mia," said Obi-Wan firmly, flashing the Jedi Master a wordless warning. "I'll meet you at the Gate."

Ramal Dyprio held out a small, non-descript duffle. "Clothes, toys, favorite doll, and one, slightly frayed, thoroughly grungy item referred to by all and sundry as a . . . blankie, or a binky, depending on who you trust."

"How'd you know?" asked Obi-Wan, accepting the little bag.

"Lucky guess," replied the Master, "and it's what I'd do, if I were you."

Obi-Wan glanced toward the doorway where Ciara Barosse was leaning nonchalantly against a bulkhead. "Congratulations, Master Ramal," said the youth. "There just might be hope for you yet."

******************* ****************** *******************

For four days, the padawan who stood poised between two different lives and the little girl who was both a recreation and a precursor of a K'hiria Melatian shaminan explored the extent of the consciousness that they shared, which is to say that they allowed themselves to relax and live in the moment, and trusted the lovely vessel in which they played to protect them from the hazards of their own folly.

They sat and talked about such weighty subjects as the best way to construct a caroba ice-cream parfait, and the preferred method for capturing glow bugs at twilight without causing any permanent injury; the best strategies for deflecting snapshots in low-grav hockey, and the merits of the latest Brash Gurgens holo-vid serial; the music of the Sleaze-Bags - the new band who were all the rage on Coruscant - as opposed to the more progressive jizz of the Blashers; the secrets to gaining access to and ascendancy over the Haunted Fortress and its legions of dark specters in the newest holo-vid interactive game - Raiders of the Bosck Vark; sledding versus sailing; favorite seasons, favorite holidays, favorite memories. Of those, Obi-Wan noted sadly, Oomy had very few, but when he would have commiserated with her over the long empty years of her life, she favored him with a winsome smile, and advised that she was currently in the process of building a wealth of them, to see her through the long years ahead.

For a time, they put the _Angel_ through her paces, and screamed their laughter as she proceeded to treat them to a thrill ride such as neither had ever experienced before. It was almost as if the little ship knew that this was a special, never-to-be-relived interim, and did everything she could to add to its memorable quality.

They ate ice cream and sweet biscuits and drank gallons of carbonated soda and forgot mundane things like healthy diets, and vitamins, and cultural edification, and bedtimes. They watched dozens of holo-vids that might have been deemed unsuitable by more sober minds, but there were no more sober minds to be found, so they snickered and giggled and loaded the next unsuitable vid, while replenishing their supply of candy and popcorn and the huge, spiced pickles for which they shared a fondness. They explored deep philosophical issues, such as whether or not fish ever sleep and how something as inherently ugly as a spider could possibly create something as exquisite as a spiderweb, aglisten with morning dew.

And, for two days, they ignored com-calls and exhortations from Jedi Masters, healers, Drimulan officers, even a flash-text message from the Jedi Temple. It was more than probable, Obi-Wan knew, that these fleeting hours would be all the two of them were ever to be allowed to share; thus he ruthlessly deflected all distractions, and allowed his heart, bruised and battered as it was, to be completely claimed by this charming, saucy, sassy, exquisite little girl. Since it was impossible for her to make the leap and bring herself up to his level of emotional and physical maturity, he chose to take the plunge in the opposite direction and become, for these few hours, a child again.

At the end of the fourth day, as they approached the area designated by the Drimulan Resistance as the Gate, they lounged on the softly-cushioned seats for pilot and co-pilot and conducted their final serious discussion, debating the exact color of the miasma swirling at the heart of the great nebula. 

Obi-Wan allowed himself a tiny moment to realize that he could not remember ever being quite so happy, not even when he was a child.

With a reluctant smile, and a wink for his companion, the young Jedi activated the com link, and said, " _Lady_ , this is the _Angel_ , on final approach for docking. Open wide, Darlin'. We're comin' home."

"Right on time, Love," came the voice of Palani Vau-Bremayne. "Bay doors opening, umbilicals extended."

"Roger that, _Lady_. Estimate contact in thirty seconds, on my mark. And . . . mark."

"Obi." Arain Fer'mia was obviously trying to suppress his amusement. "You might want to make sure you're buttoned up tight when you land. You have a couple of Jedi Masters, and one extremely pissed-off Master Healer, who can't wait to get their hands on you, literally. I hope it was worth it."

Obi-Wan looked over at his tiny co-pilot and grinned. "No question about that, Captain. No matter what the cost."

*************** **************** *****************

The hour was almost at hand now, and the towering Jedi Master was still uncertain if what he was doing was an act of great wisdom or sheer folly. He had tried to ask for guidance from the Force, but once again, as had happened a number of times in recent days, the Force was strangely silent. It was still accessible, of course, but its voice was muted; reluctant, it seemed, to intrude.

So he was left with only the vague, formless, maddeningly inexact instincts on which all non-Force users were compelled to rely. Which meant, basically, he was flying blind, and his time was growing desperately short.

He didn't even fully understand what he was hoping to accomplish in these few short minutes, but it was too late to turn back now, or so he told himself.

Obi-Wan would be along shortly, just as soon as he could free himself from the clutches of the Master healer who had dragged him off for a physical exam the minute his feet had touched the _Lady_ 's deck. Given the fact that the explosive nature of the confrontations between Padawan Kenobi and Healer Soljan was almost the stuff of legend in the hallowed halls of the Jedi Temple, there was no way to judge how long the padawan would be delayed, but Master Qui-Gon rather thought that, in this particular instance, he'd put his money on the physician. Mirilent had been so incensed by the apprentice's successful ploy to evade her supervision of his convalescence that she had been overheard muttering dire threats involving things like manacles, hobbles, restraining straps, Force inhibitors, and a ball and chain.

Qui-Gon allowed himself a small smile. Maybe he had a bit more time than he had originally believed.

One thing was certain, in a landscape entirely too vague for the Master's liking. The _Angel_ could not, would not, depart on its farewell voyage until directed to do so by its Master. Only Obi-Wan could program the little ship's navigational controls to take it safely through the Corridor to Haven.

And this would be necessary because the vessel would, in effect, have no pilot. Though there would be a number of very sophisticated droids on board, to see to the welfare of the children, the _Angel_ had been created to be flown by Force-using sentients, and could not be reprogrammed to accept anything less.

So there was still a bit of time, but it would drift through his fingers like falling sand if he didn't stop standing here in the corridor dithering like an adolescent in the grip of unrequited love.

He stepped forward to activate the sensor panel beside the entrance, and was surprised when the door slid open immediately, without a sound.

"Come in, Master," said a disembodied voice. "I've been expecting you."

The cabin was dim and shadowy, and felt empty and unoccupied in spite of the slender figure that was curled up at one end of a small banquette.

"Hello, Xani."

"I was beginning to think you weren't coming at all."

Qui-Gon, even with Force-enhanced perceptions, could barely make out the boy's face, a pallid blur against deeper shadows.

"You've locked yourself away from everyone," said the Master, very gently. "Why, Xani?"

There was a rustling sound that might have been a shrug. "Why not? Nothing I say or do is going to make a difference anyway. I'm going to spend my life as an exile, and there's nothing I can do to stop it."

Qui-Gon, thinking that his towering stature might be unnerving to the boy, sank into a small, straight-backed chair, and tried to project a soothing reassurance. "You aren't exactly being sent to the spice mines, you know. Haven is a truly exquisite world. I've been there, and you might just grow to love it, if you give yourself a chance."

The boy's eyes gleamed in the near darkness, like blue flames. "I'm sure it's charming. A big, happy, well-stocked, empty playhouse."

"You won't be alone. Master ru Caeri has chosen to accompany you, as you well know, and your friends will be there with you."

"Right," the boy replied. "How stupid of me! I'll have my friends, all twenty of them. For roughly twenty-one years, according to everybody's best estimate, or so I'm told." He rose and stalked forward, coming to a stop directly in front of the Jedi Master, and Qui-Gon was somehow surprised to note that he was as achingly beautiful as he had ever been. "While you - and _he_ \- will have the galaxy as your playground. Somehow, that doesn't seem quite equitable, does it?"

"Xani, you . . ."

"You're condemning me," the boy shouted, "because of your fear. Oh, but, no, wait, that can't be. The Jedi can't possibly fear anything. How does it go; fear leads to anger, which leads . . ."

"You won't be completely alone," said Qui-Gon firmly. "Several hundred of those who settled there during the war have chosen to remain; it should develop into a thriving colony over the years."

"Oh, joy!" Xani's voice was heavy with sarcasm. "Provincials. I can hardly wait."

"There are those, young one," said the Master, feeling his patience thin and begin to contract, "who would consider you a provincial, despite your origins."

"I am a prince of the royal house of Telos!" Such arrogance was ludicrous in a voice that had not yet deepened through the hormonal onslaught of adolescence.

Qui-Gon sighed. "Yes, I suppose you are, and how will that serve you now?"

The boy inhaled sharply and jerked away from the pity he read in the Master's gaze. He would not be pitied. Given a choice between pity and hatred, there was no real choice.

"Has your padawan told you yet? Allowed you to see how deeply you damaged him? He'll never forgive you, you know. Because you were stupid and gullible and old and foolish, you threw him away, and he won't be coming back." A horrible, insidious quality insinuated itself into the boy's tone. "He won't have any trouble at all finding a master to replace you, of course. Looking like he does, they'll be fighting over whose bed he'll grace first, and he'll owe it all to you, great Jedi Master. You'll have turned your precious Obi-Wan into a first-class whore. How does that suit you? That'll be a record among the Jedi that will probably stand for all time; one padawan murdered, and the second transformed into a pretty little plaything for whoever's got the price."

The Jedi Master rose and stared down at the boy before him, a boy radiating defiance and bitter hatred.

"Good-bye, Xani. I hope you find the peace you so desperately need."

He turned to go, but was gripped by the deadly purpose he heard in the boy's voice as he made one parting statement. "When it's over, when I'm free - I'll still remember. No matter how long it takes, he will be mine, eventually."

Qui-Gon felt icy fingers scrabble against his heart, and heard soft laughter as he made his exit.

******************** ******************** **************  
tbc


	38. More Fools than Wise

Chapter 38: More Fools than Wise

_The silver swan, who living had no note,_  
_When death approached unlocked her silent throat;_  
_Leaning her breast against the reedy shore_  
_Thus sung her first and last, and sung no more:_  
_Farewell, all joys; O death, come close mine eyes;_  
_More geese than swans now live, more fools than wise._

\- From ORLANDO GIBBONS, _The First Set of Madrigals and Motets of Five Parts_ \- Anonymous

 

There was no great fanfare involved in preparing the children for their departure; they held themselves as they had from the beginning of this strange, unfocused phase of their lives, apart, untouched and untouchable - in transition. It was as if this stretch of days formed a connective tissue to bridge the space between the solitary existence they had endured before, and the still more solitary existence they would endure now.

Master ru Caeri moved among them, quiet and wrapped in a gentle dignity as tangible and almost as visible as his Jedi cloak. He was unfailingly solicitous of their well-being and attentive to their needs, but there was no mistaking his concern for them as anything more than what it was; the dedication of a Jedi Master, doing his duty in a manner befitting the abilities of his declining years. He was a caretaker; he was not a parent. Nor did he care to be.

The distinction didn't seem to concern anyone very much, and, under different circumstances, it might not have bothered Obi-Wan all that much either. These were, after all, not exactly ordinary children. They were, for the most part, remarkably self-contained, watchful, and distrustful to a fault, and it was virtually impossible to determine if these characteristics were the result of nature or nurture. Though they had been under the care of Master ru Caeri and his bondmate for most of their lives, it was impossible to forget that they had spent their earliest years under the control of N'Vell Aji and her colleagues, as continuing subjects of intense scientific research. 

There was simply no way of determining how much they had taken from that cold, clinical atmosphere. And, Obi-Wan acknowledged to himself, no way of knowing if putting a Jedi team in charge of seeing to their needs once they were removed from that environment had really been the ideal arrangement, even though there had been few alternatives available. Given their facility with the Force, and the complete lack of moral instruction they had had to encourage them to learn control and responsibility, it had been necessary to isolate them from those who might have been at risk. 

It had been virtually unavoidable, but it had probably not been the kindest choice for the children's emotional well-being.

They had never known the love of a parent, or even the childhood bonds formed between young initiates and crèche training instructors. Physically, they were perfectly normal for their ages, but their development, from an emotional standpoint, was stunted, or those were the initial findings of Jedi mind-healers. So stunted that it was doubtful they could ever function normally in an unmonitored environment.

Except for Oomy. And there, for Obi-Wan at least, was the true heart of the problem.

He had never known a child more open and loving and generous of spirit. How could he allow her to be condemned to spend the next two decades of her life among a group of her peers who knew nothing of affection or warmth or a capacity for joy and laughter?

He sat in the pilot's chair of the _Morning Angel_ , in deep shadow as he had not bothered to activate the cabin lights, and tried to shake off the sense of malaise that clung to him like an oily mist. His hands were deep within the control interface, and he could almost hear the voice of his beautiful ship, as she touched his thoughts and stroked his mind. With a tiny smile, he found that it was almost possible to believe that Ciara was right: the little vessel really did love him, and he found that he would really have liked to have a chance to find out just how much she might have done for him, given time and opportunity.

Unfortunately, they had neither, and he firmly, if reluctantly, reiterated his instructions to the lovely ship. There was, of course, no question that she would do as he directed, but it was patently obvious that she really didn't like what she would have to do.

"That's OK, my beauty," he sighed, settling more comfortably into the pilot's seat and luxuriating in the comfort as it molded to cradle him perfectly. "I don't like it either. I am really going to miss you."

"You could come too," said a voice behind him, barely audible.

The young Jedi turned, and was somehow not surprised to find Xani standing behind him, his face merely a blur in the lavender gloom. But his eyes were pools of bright sapphire, that seemed to capture and magnify every pale particle of light within the ship and throw it off in brilliant sparks.

Obi-Wan shook his head. "You know I can't do that, Xani."

"Why?" demanded the boy. "Because of him? Even after what he did to you, you're going to crawl back to him. Why don't you just hand him a whip, and invite him to put his marks all over your body? That's what you're doing, you know. You're giving him that kind of power, and you know he'll use it against you again."

The young Jedi was silent, turning back to make some final course adjustments on the nav-panel.

"You do know," insisted the boy, "don't you?"

Obi-Wan continued with his tasks, and ignored the question.

When Xani darted forward and threw himself across Obi-Wan's body, the young Jedi was momentarily stunned and found himself in the unenviable position of having a lapful of teen-aged boy with hormones at full flood-stage. He found that he was loathe to prolong the contact, but, at the same time, reluctant to crush the child's ego by dumping him on the deck.

"Xani," he said, trying for firmness, but sounding more than a little strangled, "don't do this. You need . . ."

"Please," begged the boy, his face buried against the Jedi's throat, "please don't send me away. I need you. Please."

"You're just frightened and upset, Xani. Everything will be. . ."

"Don't say that, Obi-Wan," the teen-ager whispered, "because nothing is going to be all right, ever again. Not if you send me away. Please, I'll do anything. Please. I could make you happy - really, really happy. I'd take better care of you than he ever could. Please."

"Xani," said the young Jedi, firmly forcing the boy out of his lap and up to his feet, "I'm sorry. There's nothing I can do."

"I love you." It was so softly spoken that, at first, Obi-Wan thought he had imagined it, until it was repeated. "I love you."

The apprentice paused, frozen by the naked need he heard in that broken voice and cursed his own vulnerabilities, and near total recall. He knew how it felt, of course, to love someone, and be pushed away, and the fact that this boy had been instrumental in his own brush with that experience in no way diminished the pain he could almost taste in the teen-ager's Force presence.

He stood, and turned to face the boy, and tried, really, really tried, to find it in his heart to dismiss the misery he saw reflected in that pale face, but, in the end, he couldn't. Instead, he knelt at the boy's feet, and rested his hands on narrow shoulders. "Xani, I can't give you what you want. I'm sorry. I can't feel what you want me to feel."

"It's because of him, isn't it?"

"No, it's not. I'm not even sure what I feel for him any more. But that doesn't mean I can just change into what you want me to be."

"All my life, I've waited," said the boy, leaning forward and bracing his forehead against Obi-Wan's. "For somebody to make me feel something. I never felt _anything_ , but cold and angry and bitter and alone - until you. Please don't send me away."

"It isn't his choice, Xani." The baritone voice seemed to fill the cabin. Qui-Gon stood in the open hatch, and there was no arguing with his tone or his demeanor. "Obi-Wan can't change your life for you. Only you can do that."

Xani jerked upright, and the brightness in his eyes seemed to sharpen and grow brittle. "Of course. I should have known. You still have use for him, so he won't be allowed to come with me."

The Master opened his mouth to respond, but Obi-Wan beat him to it. "No, Xani. I won't hide behind Master Jinn. Even if I could change this, I wouldn't. I hope that you find peace and happiness on Haven. I promise you that it's there, if you only look for it. But I won't go with you."

And the light in the boy's eyes flared once, and died, and he nodded as he started toward the hatch, his movements graceless and jerky.

But he paused just before stepping out of the cockpit and looked back to meet Obi-Wan's gaze. "You'll regret this," he said, with a small, sinister smile. "Always remember what you did here today, because, someday, you'll regret it."

Qui-Gon watched the boy as he broke and ran from the ship, fists clenched and head drooping. "He'll be all right," the Master said softly.

Obi-Wan lifted his eyes, and his gaze was steady and cold. "I doubt it, but I can't make it right for him."

The elder Jedi moved forward, and lowered himself into the co-pilot's seat. "You're troubled, Padawan."

Obi-Wan was startled into a small rueful smile. "Troubled? Yeah, that's pretty much exactly what I am. Troubled."

"What can I do?"

And again, the apprentice was surprised to hear a note of bewilderment in the Master's voice. "What makes you so sure you can do anything?" he asked. "Why do you always think you can fix whatever is wrong? Some things can't be fixed."

Qui-Gon rose abruptly and stepped forward, laying his huge hands on his padawan's shoulders. "Are we talking about these children, Obi-Wan? Or maybe the trinary parliamentary system on Terbey'ia 6? Or the new Drimulan ruling council? Or . . . something more basic."

The apprentice met his Master's gaze without flinching. "What do you think?" he asked.

Qui-Gon took a deep, trembling breath. "I think we're talking about us, about you and me. Is that it? Are we the . . . the thing that can't be fixed?"

Obi-Wan moved away from the Master's hands, and turned back to the _Angel'_ s controls. "Tell me why it matters to you," he said wearily. "Really, not all the noble sentiments or the lofty thoughts of duty and honor. Just the simple truth, without all the propaganda bullshit. Why do you care? Your life without me would be so much simpler - uncomplicated, serene."

Qui-Gon's eyes darkened as he stared through the transparency of the canopy. "I find that serenity is a much over-rated commodity, Obi-Wan. Have you reached your decision?"

"No."

"Do you even know what you want?"

"No."

The Master's breath quickened. "Do you understand how much I . . ."

"No, and I don't want to discuss it."

The younger Jedi turned away from the instrument panel, and side-stepped to avoid brushing against Master Jinn. But the towering Master was weary of avoidance and maneuvering, and reached out roughly to grab his student's arms, and force him to stand motionless before him. "There are yet things to be said between us, Padawan."

"Stop it." It was little more than a hiss. "Don't call me that. That name, it's supposed to be . . ."

"Supposed to be what?"

"A pet name. A term of endearment. When you speak it . . ."

"Go on. When I speak it?"

"It has no meaning. It's like a military rank, or a professional title. It's . . . just an empty word."

Qui-Gon looked down into the face that was curiously still now, pale and clenched tight, with eyes afire with blue flame. "That's how it's supposed to be," said the Master, very softly, "but you could never accept that, and neither could I."

"What do you mean?"

The Master sighed, and a tiny smile touched his lips, but nothing moved in his eyes. "I'll answer that question, Obi-Wan, and anything else you care to ask, if you'll consent to sit and talk with me, in a place where we can be sure of enough privacy and uninterrupted time to allow us to thrash this thing out between us, until nothing remains to be said."

Obi-Wan was silent for a moment, and Qui-Gon was forced to suppress an urge to smile as he noted the youth's fingers stray to grasp the tail of a braid, a phantom braid that was no longer there to provide its own strange brand of comfort, as it had since Obi-Wan was thirteen years old.

"I'll consider it," said the younger Jedi finally, "on one condition."

The Master refused to heave the deep breath he so desperately needed. "Which is?"

"If I agree to this extended discussion," - a ghostly gleam of mischief flared in changeable eyes - "then you must agree to abide by whatever decision I reach when it's finished, with no further argument."

Qui-Gon closed his eyes briefly, and acknowledged silently that the little bastard had managed to back a Jedi Master into a corner from which there appeared to be no escape; an achievement of no small note, one small portion of his mind, the portion that was so fiercely proud of this young man's remarkable abilities, observed with a sardonic smile.

Finally, the Master nodded. "If you will truly hear me out, without twisting my words into metaphoric pretzels, I agree."

A tiny twitch tugged at the corner of Obi-Wan's mouth. "Metaphoric pretzels? Me?"

"Indeed," replied Master Jinn. "Master Windu once referred to you as the - let me see if I recall it exactly. Ah, yes . . . the crown prince of convoluted logic."

Too late, the Master realized the gargantuan opening he had left for the apprentice. Maybe, he thought, he'd get lucky, and the boy wouldn't notice.

The rising gleam in those amazing eyes laid that hope to rest immediately.

"If I'm the crown prince," said the boy, his smugness almost palpable, "then who's . . ."

"Oh, never mind," snapped the Master, before turning and beating a hasty retreat.

But not hasty enough to avoid hearing the soft peal of laughter that seemed to fight its way past Obi-Wan's determined resistance to any nuance of normalcy between them. The sound struck directly into the Jedi Master's heart and had the immediate effect of shattering a coating of protective ice that he had erected around his own vulnerabilities.

As he strode down the _Angel'_ s ramp, he had to force himself to keep repeating that the situation was still bleak and showed little promise of success; that one small spate of chuckling meant nothing; that the distance between where he was now and where his padawan stood, poised for flight, was both vast, and bisected by a bottomless chasm where either or both might be lost should they try to bridge it. He was painfully aware of all the factors that still remained unresolved; yet the memory of that little laugh, no more than a snicker really, sang within him like a simple melody, a melody which his quickening heart insisted on using as the base line for a whole symphony of renewal.

Ridiculous. He chided himself as an old fool. Ridiculous. Which didn't change the fact that his step, and his mind, were lighter than at any time since before this whole debacle began.

**************** ******************* ******************

It felt strange to be back in the cramped little cabin that had been allotted for his use when he had first come aboard the _Lady Ghost_. He had spent so little time there that it had retained nothing of his personality, not even a trace of his Force signature. It was just an empty cabin.

Though not quite yet, not entirely. 

He slung the small duffel bag, half-a-meter square, which contained every single item he owned in the entire universe, into the tiny storage unit, and plopped himself down on the narrow bunk. He was surprised to note how firm - no, actually the correct word was 'hard' - the bed was; he didn't remember it being quite so unyielding. Then he smiled; he didn't remember it, because he had never actually slept in it.

Sleep had, apparently, not been at the top of his list of priorities when he had arrived here, and what dreams might have invaded his slumber didn't even bear thinking about.

But he thought that someday soon, when everything that was now roiling around in his thoughts was settled and safely tucked into its assigned niche, he might just sleep for a week. Maybe even two.

For he found, suddenly, that he was bone weary, with the kind of weariness that lay on the surface of the mind, dulling perceptions and clouding thought processes, before burrowing down through all the layers of consciousness to coil finally in the twilight layers of awareness. Such exhaustion would not respond to a few little catnaps or a couple of hours of meditation. He needed deep, cleansing, dreamless, undrugged, unconflicted sleep, of several days' duration.

His eyes snapped open as a soft chime sounded at the door. Obviously, whatever his fatigued body needed, he wasn't going to get. Not now, anyway.

"Come," he called softly, heaving himself to a sitting position.

He didn't realize until he released a soft, pent-up breath how much he didn't want to see his Master, at that moment.

Arain Fer'mia, however, was apparently not on the proscribed list, for the time being, and Obi-Wan was somewhat surprised, but quite gratified, to spot the Drimulan's uncle, Mer'lioz, standing behind his nephew.

"We do not wish to disturb your rest, Young Kenobi," said the elder Fer'mia.

"You're not," replied Obi-Wan, rising. "I was just woolgathering."

"Hmmmm," said Mer'lioz with a smile. "Somehow, I doubt that. I think that might be one of your problems."

"What problems?" Obi-Wan's grin was almost convincing, but not quite. Both Drimulans had spent their entire lives assessing fellow sentients, and both recognized false bravado when they saw it.

"The ones I'm here to solve for you," said the captain of the _Lady Ghost,_ with an easy smile, as he sat at the end of the narrow bunk, while his uncle lowered himself into the cabin's only chair, a rickety, free-form stool that creaked alarmingly under his weight.

"I wasn't aware," said Obi-Wan slowly, choosing his words with care, "that you were so philanthropic."

Arain Fer'mia burst out laughing, warm approval radiating from opaque gray/green eyes. "I must confess, Obi-Wan; that's a word no one has ever applied to me. With good cause." The laugh vanished, but the approval remained. "I'm a very selfish individual. I believe in doing what's right for me, and if it also happens to be right for you, then so be it."

"So-o-o-o," said the youth, "what is it that benefits us both?"

Arain exchanged glances with his uncle, and Obi-Wan was surprised to realize that the Ghost - he of the unflappable demeanor and the galactic reputation for coolness under fire - was nervous, as he began to speak in a voice just the slightest bit unsteady.

"I find myself in a strange position, Obi-Wan. One I have never before contemplated. Which is really bizarre, all things considered. I mean, if you fight a war for an entire decade - a bitterly fought, dreadfully tragic war - it would seem logical to stop and consider what you might do in the event you ever actually won the war. But somehow, I never did. I guess I just never got around to it."

"Bored with peacetime already, Captain?" asked the young Jedi, not unsympathetic. In a sense, he knew exactly how Fer'mia was feeling.

"Not bored," came the response. "Just out of step."

Obi-Wan nodded, but remained silent.

Fer'mia, however, felt the soft wave of acceptance - and camaraderie - that the youth exuded, probably without even being aware of it. "You understand, don't you?"

"Yes, I do."

"Because," Fer'mia continued, very gently, "you never quite fit in with the people you spend your life protecting, do you? Because they never quite understand what it is that you do and what it costs you."

"If they ever find out what it costs," replied Obi-Wan, "then I haven't done my job, have I?"

Fer'mia nodded, and suppressed a sigh as he looked down at his hands, which seemed to have developed a life of their own, twisting and flexing independently. "How do you cope with it? How do you live among them, knowing things, living with things, that you dare not let them know or see?"

Obi-Wan shrugged slightly. "You live . . . in compartments," he answered. "And you keep them completely separate from each other. And, most of all, you remember who belongs in which compartment, and you treasure the ones that can move with you from one to another."

The Drimulan priest, who had been quiet until now, smiled suddenly. "You see, Nephew. He understands perfectly. I told you he would."

"Understands what?"

Arain Fer'mia drew a deep breath. "People like that - the ones who share your 'compartments' with you - are virtually priceless and extremely rare. Aren't they?"

The young Jedi smiled. "One in a million."

Fer'mia nodded. "So when you find one like that, if you're smart, you hold on to him."

It wasn't a question, and Obi-Wan didn't venture a comment.

The captain looked up suddenly, his gaze steady and committed to whatever course it was that he had decided to pursue. "You, Obi-Wan, are that one in a million for us, and we can't just step aside and let you walk away, without giving you whatever alternatives we can provide." He was silent for a moment, lost in thought. "No, that's not quite right either. It's not that _we_ can't; it's that _I _can't. I can't just stand here, and watch you leave us, without saying this."__

__"Rain," said the youth quietly, "you've already offered. You don't have to . . ."_ _

__"Yes, I do." The Drimulan's tone was firm, determined, and unwilling to abide interruption. "Because I need to say this - for your sake, and for mine. So just shut up and listen."_ _

__He rose abruptly, and moved to stand before the tiny viewport that allowed a bowl-shaped view of the color-splashes of the nebula. "I never allowed myself to develop much of a life beyond the resistance, Obi-Wan. I guess, if I thought of it at all, I figured it would hardly have been fair to allow people to become close to me - like a family - because I was never sure if I would survive from one day to the next. And now, now when it's all behind me, and I could go off and find someone to share a life, I find that I don't know how. I don't want to inflict where I've been - what I've been - on those who didn't have to live it. I don't know how to leave it behind me."_ _

__"Rain," said Obi-Wan, aware of the great depth of pain that the captain would not - could not - allow anyone to ever plumb fully, "everybody who goes through what you did, feels the same way. For a while. You have to be willing to let it go, to open up to something different."_ _

__But Fer'mia was shaking his head. "You don't understand. I find that I don't want to let it go. I don't want to lose what I have that's replaced family and hearth and home for all these years."_ _

__He turned abruptly and studied the face of the young man who was, in turn, studying him. "The _Lady_ will go on, Obi. I've already discussed this with my crew. Frankly, we're not even sure what we'll go on _as_. Planetary security patrol; diplomatic courier; galactic explorer - we don't know. But we're all agreed on one thing."_ _

__He reseated himself, so he was on the same level with the young Jedi; it somehow just felt appropriate. "This crew has become my family, Obi-Wan. Warts and all, as they say. Some of them, I love deeply; some I barely tolerate, but I suspect that's true of all families. I don't expect to ever have another, for I believe that my . . . history would be damaging to any normal relationship I might try to develop."_ _

__He stopped, and Obi-Wan was almost sure he saw a faint blush rise in the Drimulan's face. "I don't ever expect to have a son of my own," he said firmly, almost rushing now. "I'll have Devlyn, of course, but even he doesn't fully comprehend what our lives were like, when every day was a struggle just to survive to fight another day, and I don't want him to grow up to look at life - and at peace - as I do." He leaned forward, and laid a firm hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder. "But I do want a child, Obi-Wan - a son of my heart. Selfish of me, I know, but there it is."_ _

__"Rain, I'm not sure I . . ."_ _

__"He means you, Young One," said Mer'lioz abruptly. "He just can't quite bring himself to say it aloud, because he's afraid you'll find it . . ."_ _

__The silence was thick for a moment, as Obi-Wan looked puzzled. Until the light blazed in his mind, and the anger blazed in his eyes._ _

__"Amusing? You thought I'd laugh at you?"_ _

__Arain Fer'mia almost flinched. He might have the Force sensitivity of a radish, but he knew outrage when he saw and heard it. "The thought did cross my mind."_ _

__Obi-Wan leapt to his feet. "Then why the fuck would you even want me, if you think I'm that fucking cruel and insensitive?"_ _

__"Maybe," replied the Drimulan, very quietly, "because I can't imagine why you'd want to say yes. You see, although it might not seem so, I do realize that we have absolutely nothing to offer you to convince you to stay with us."_ _

__And the anger flashed once more, bright as strobe lights, and was gone. Obi-Wan sank to his knees at the captain's feet, his eyes alight with warmth. "Are you kidding me?" he asked, velvet-voiced. "You took me in, when I had no place to go. You gave me a purpose, when I was empty and useless. You believed in me, when I couldn't even believe in myself. And now, you want to be my family? Rain, I've never had a family. I don't even recognize the concept. How do I respond to that?"_ _

__The captain would have replied, but the priest beat him to it. "Families are tied together in many different ways, Young Kenobi," said Mer'lioz. "Just because you share no bloodlines with those who have guided your life, does not mean they are not family."_ _

__"I know," breathed Obi-Wan, still locked in Rain Fer'mia's gaze, "but they're the ones that abandoned me."_ _

__The priest shrugged. "There's no such thing as a perfect family."_ _

__The captain shot his uncle what could only be termed a 'dirty' look. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"_ _

__Mer'lioz smiled. "We're not at war, Nephew, and young Kenobi is not a prize to be won in battle. The only victory is in allowing him to choose his own destiny."_ _

__"No one would take that from him," retorted the captain. Then his tone softened, as he looked once more at the youth still kneeling before him. "Time grows short, Obi-Wan. The optimum launch time for the children is just hours away, and I have a feeling that you won't linger long once they're gone. So I'm going to say this, but I'm only going to say it once. I won't urge you or argue with you or try to convince you. I'll simply ask you. Stay with us, Obi. In every way except by blood, you could be my son. Your place here is forever secure. And, if you choose to leave us, know this. Just as you're free to walk away from us, you're free to come back. You'll always have a place here."_ _

__With a flagrant tenderness that Obi-Wan was absolutely certain no other man had ever witnessed, Arain Fer'mia leaned forward, and kissed the young Jedi's forehead, before rising abruptly and bolting from the cabin._ _

__Mer'lioz moved at a slower pace, and with great dignity, pausing at the open hatch. "Our debt to you is immeasurable, Young one, and can never be discharged. But make no mistake about it; what my nephew just said to you has little to do with what you did to help us win our war, and much to do with what you did to win his heart, based on his perception of what you really are. He doesn't love the war hero or the Jedi warrior; he loves the purity of the child he sees in you, as do I. Whatever your decision, walk in harmony, Obi-Wan, and live in peace."_ _

__Obi-Wan found, when he was alone once more, that he had neither the strength nor the will to get off his knees. It all seemed to be just that much too much trouble._ _

__He didn't think he'd ever felt so lost in his entire life._ _

__Warm and cozy and comforted to know he was so wanted and needed, but lost, just the same._ _

__************* ******************* ****************_ _

It was only an hour away now, one hour until the _Angel_ , under the stern guidance of her master, would spiral into the passageway to Haven, bearing the children of Mejanis to their new home. 

__And Obi-Wan, despite an hour of meditation and countless recitations of code and mantras and, finally, in desperation, nonsense jingles, was no closer to finding his composure to face it with Jedi serenity._ _

__At the moment, sliding through an access tube by way of a shortcut to the shuttle bay, he was about as serene as a geyser, rumbling its way toward eruption._ _

__The children had spent the past few hours with the healers, receiving inoculations and sub-dermal nutritional implants to enable them to better adapt to their new habitat._ _

__They were going to a new world and certainly a better, more beautiful world than the one they had left behind, with only one small negative feature._ _

__It would be cut off from the rest of the galaxy for more than two decades._ _

__As Obi-Wan moved through the tube, his mind was elsewhere, occupied specifically with thoughts of one tiny, exquisite face, centered around huge, limpid gray eyes._ _

__It was, therefore, probably completely understandable that he didn't notice the shadowy presence crouching in a dark recess near the exit hatch until it was marginally too late. Understandable, that is, unless you were supposed to be a senior Jedi padawan, which meant, of course, that you forgave yourself exactly nothing._ _

__The world went black, as a sharp, crushing pain flared in his temple, and he felt, as he lost his grasp on reality, the blooming of an ugly, voracious glee as his assailant clutched him with bruising fingers._ _

__It was only a matter of minutes before he regained consciousness, but it was long enough for his attacker to complete his preparations for the event he obviously had planned with great care._ _

__Obi-Wan woke, bound to steel scaffolding in a cargo bay, one in the deepest levels on the great ship, judging by the nearby hum of the hyperdrive engines. His bindings, wire cables with electronic locking gears, would have been child's play for him to open, except for one tiny problem. When he reached for the Force, what he got instead was a massive wave of nausea that would have sent him to his knees had he not been bound in place._ _

__A sharp, rhythmic throbbing in his head suggested that he had taken a considerable blow to the temple, heavy enough, perhaps, to cause a concussion; even heavy enough, perhaps, to disrupt his connection to the Force._ _

__He suppressed a moan and raised his head, squinting against light that was focused directly on his face. and startlingly bright against the contrasting darkness around him._ _

__He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision, before realizing that the problem wasn't actually in his eyes, but in his brain's ability to analyze what he saw._ _

__The throb in his head was intense, and when he tried to flex his shoulders to ease the strain on his neck, he realized that the metal to which he was bound was intensely cold. It was at that moment that he realized something else; it was colder than it should have been, because it lay directly against his skin._ _

__His clothes were missing._ _

__And then he heard the giggle. There was no other word for it. It was a snide, oily, near hysterical giggle, and it was getting louder._ _

__"Kill him, she said." The giggler had decided to speak, between giggles. "I don't care how you do it. Just kill him. And she paid for it, Little Tease. Oh, yes, she did. She paid big, all so she could be sure that someone would put a knife in your flat little belly."_ _

__Beyond the brightness of the directional light, something moved and something glinted._ _

__"Take no chances, she said." There was a sense of anger in the voice now, a deep, abiding resentment. "He's a Jedi; he could probably kill you with a thought. Take no chances; just kill him."_ _

__Rapid footsteps now, and a small, almost comical figure materializing out of the darkness. But the face was not comical. The face was the stuff of nightmares._ _

__"But she didn't know how you'd look - like this, did she? Little cockteaser. Thinking you're too good for someone like me. Keeping yourself for the big Jedi, I'll bet. Your 'Master', they call him. Tell me, Boy; how does he master you?"_ _

__Obi-Wan closed his eyes, reaching for serenity - for focus - and trying, without notable success, to ignore the Sithly agonized throb in his head._ _

__"Batzo," he said softly, "why are you doing this?"_ _

__The giggles erupted again. "Oh, little tease, if you could just see yourself, you'd know. Now - how should we do this, hmmmm? All she wants is for you to die; she doesn't much care how, and neither do I. But I want you alive, for a little while anyway. I want to hear that sweet, stuck-up, cultured voice cry out when I take your sweet little ass."_ _

__"Who?" Obi-Wan managed to ask, determined to ignore the flare of pain and fear. "Who wants me dead?"_ _

__"Hey," replied Batzo, now stepping forward to run his hands down the Jedi's lean torso, "you ain't that dumb, Kid. That Aji bitch.. That's who."_ _

__"She's dead," replied Obi-Wan, hoarsely. "She can't pay you anything."_ _

__Another giggle. "She already did, Lover, and I always deliver what I promise. Been doing it for a long time. How do you think the mercenaries always knew what was going on, and where you were going to be? And it's all your fault, you know. Cause I never gave 'em enough to destroy this ship or to catch the Ghost. I knew better, knew they'd have no use for me if I did that. So I gave 'em just enough. But I never woulda give 'em you, Sweetness. All you hada do was be nice to me."_ _

__He leaned forward then, yanking the young Jedi's head down with a grubby hand and grabbing Obi-Wan's lower lip between his teeth, biting down - hard. "Gonna fuck you blind, Sweetness; then gonna gut you like a nerf."_ _

__"I don't think so," said Obi-Wan, in a near whisper, feeling the stirring of power flowing around and through him, as blood gushed from his lacerated lip._ _

__"You don't think so, what?" jeered Batzo, his gnarled hand reaching out to grab at the firm young body._ _

__"How about . . . he doesn't think so - Motherfucker," said a voice from the darkness, in a completely conversational tone._ _

__Arain Fer'mia stepped forward, and Batzo died, fingers still reaching, as three blaster bolts converged on him._ _

__Palani Vau Bremayne and Solitaire then stepped into the light, followed by one very tall, very solemn - and very worried - Jedi Master._ _

__"You know, Captain," said Qui-Gon softly, "Obi-Wan was not in immediate danger. Killing him was . . ."_ _

__"Drimulan justice," said Fer'mia firmly, and the look in his eyes suggested that the subject be dropped - immediately._ _

__Qui-Gon's robe was off and draped around his padawan's bare body, almost before Batzo's body hit the floor._ _

__As the Master released the bonds, he muttered, "You didn't call me, Obi-Wan. Why didn't you call me?"_ _

__When the boy slumped forward into his arms, he heard the whispered response. "Couldn't, but I knew you'd come."_ _

__Qui-Gon adjusted his arms so that his student's face fit perfectly into the curve of his throat. Then he laughed softly. "You do know where you're going now, don't you?"_ _

__Obi-Wan grew very still. And breathed a tiny curse. "Oh, shit!"_ _

__"He all right?" asked Captain Fer'mia, remarkably calm for a man who had just killed one of his crewmen._ _

__"Not to worry, Captain," replied the Jedi Master. "Obi-Wan is never going to be allowed to die while Mirilent Soljan is on duty. Not if she had to go into the Force itself, to grab him by the hair and drag him back into life."_ _

__"Did you hear, Rain?" Obi-Wan asked, barely audible._ _

__"Yeah, Kiddo. I heard. Answers a lot of questions, doesn't it?"_ _

__"All but one," came the reply._ _

__Fer'mia looked confused. "Which one?"_ _

__Obi-Wan sighed. "When did she give him those orders?"_ _

__At that exact moment, Obi-Wan lost consciousness again, but the other four in the chamber were left to consider his final question. And, to a person, they decided that they didn't like the implications - not one damned bit._ _

__************ ***************** ******************_ _

__He looked slightly worse for the wear, but he was there, as, indeed, he had to be._ _

The _Angel_ would only fly for her master, in this situation. She would accept no one else's remote direction. 

__A half-hour in sickbay, under Mirilent's caustic ministrations - and Rakoo's probing tongue - had left Obi-Wan in a less than pleasant mood, and, when his own ship's sensors, picking up on his latest injury, attempted to slap him into a biobed and sedate him for the duration, it took every ounce of Jedi forbearance he had ever mastered to allow him to complete his task._ _

__But now the moment was at hand, and he could find no reason for further delay._ _

__Instead, he turned to Master Qui-Gon and prepared to make his pitch._ _

__But the Master was one step ahead of him, as befitting a Jedi Master. "Don't bother, Padawan. We gave her the option, and she refused."_ _

__"What?" It had never occurred to him that Oomy might not share his desire to see her avoid the fate of the other children._ _

__"She wishes to go. More than that, she says that she must go. That it's meant to be."_ _

__Qui-Gon's smile was bittersweet. "You and she have a great deal in common, Obi-Wan. She's as strong in the Unifying Force as you are. She knows exactly what she's doing."_ _

__Obi-Wan made his final adjustments to the nav interface, and rose. "We'll just see about that," he said firmly._ _

__"Are you planning to force her to obey your will?"_ _

__The Master's tone was mild, but Obi-Wan found himself caught up short by it anyway. "No, of course not. But she doesn't understand . . ."_ _

__Qui-Gon moved toward the exit. "I think you'll find, young one, that there's very little that Oomy doesn't understand. Still, you are free to make the attempt. Just know that I won't allow her to be coerced."_ _

__"You really think I'd do that?" There was a thread of anger in the youth's tone, but, mostly, he just sounded curious._ _

__The Master sighed. "No. I don't, and I apologize if I sounded as if I did."_ _

__Obi-Wan merely nodded, but studied Qui-Gon's face briefly, before turning for his final farewell to his lovely vessel._ _

__It only took a moment - a silent communion between man and machine. What was there, after all, to say beyond "good-bye" and - just possibly - "I love you"?_ _

__Then he was making his exit, without looking back._ _

The children were waiting at the bottom of the boarding ramp, looking as cool and detached as always. Though it would be a bit of a squeeze for them all to be aboard at once, it was well within the _Angel_ 's capacity to provide for their well-being, and the trip was a short one, just a couple of hours. 

__A couple of hours, to reach a life bound within invisible walls, there to remain for a more than twenty years._ _

__Qui-Gon moved swiftly to Master ru Caeri's side, making sure that the caretaker knew how to activate the various droids packed away in the tiny ship's cargo bay, and had been adequately prepared for dealing with the technology available on Haven._ _

__Obi-Wan, on the other hand, went to the children._ _

__They regarded him with great solemnity, but with no animosity, so far as he could tell. They seemed calm, prepared, remarkably self-contained._ _

__And he absolutely would not entertain the thought that their serenity was so extreme that it was unnatural, even spooky._ _

_Now there's a scientific observation for you,_ he thought. Spooky. Completely emotional, he conceded, glancing over the still faces once more. But entirely appropriate. 

__Except, of course, for the two faces for which the term did not apply._ _

__Xani - and Oomy._ _

__As the rest of the children began to board, under ru Caeri's direction, Xani looked up into Obi-Wan's eyes, and there was no way the young Jedi could fail to see the abject misery that gripped the boy's heart._ _

__"Please," said the teen-ager, obviously driven to speak, though his pride tried to forbid it. "Please come with me."_ _

__"Xani . . ."_ _

__"No!" And there was no arguing with that commanding tone, and no denying its source._ _

__Oomy's eyes were huge, and dark with thunder. "He will not. Get on board, Xani."_ _

__"You don't command me," sneered the boy, but something in his voice - and in his posture - said that, just maybe, she did._ _

__"Get on board, now!"_ _

__Obi-Wan looked back and forth, from one to the other, and sensed a power struggle that he couldn't quite understand._ _

__After several silent seconds, when every person in the shuttle bay seemed to be held in suspension, Xani heaved a huge breath, ignoring the tears that welled and streamed down his face. He glanced at Obi-Wan once more, and whispered, "Remember that I loved you, and you just lost your last chance."_ _

__Then he sprinted up the boarding ramp and was gone from sight._ _

__"What did you do?" Obi-Wan asked Oomy, kneeling before her._ _

__She moved to wrap her arms around his neck and laid her head against his chest. "We protect our own," she whispered._ _

__He smiled. "Oomy, I can protect myself."_ _

__"Usually," she agreed, "but not this time. He uses your own soft heart against you."_ _

__His hand moved to stroke the softness of her hair. "You're the one who's breaking that soft heart, you know. Why won't you stay with me?"_ _

__She turned her head, and dropped a swift kiss on his cheek, before stepping back firmly. "I'm not her, you know," she said softly. "Not really. She's the one who'll be waiting for you, when the time is right. It's for the two of you - not me."_ _

__"Oomy . . . ."_ _

__"Good-bye, my Obi," she said, as she turned and raced for the ramp. "I love you. You'll see how much, soon."_ _

__It took a few minutes for him to regain his composure and his concentration, but, when the time came, he stood - eyes tightly closed - and watched in his mind's eye as his beautiful little ship rose and made its way out into the spangled splendor of space and, with a tiny little flourish of its fins that he knew he had never programmed into it, gathered itself, and was gone._ _

An hour later, he was sitting at the com-station, on the _Lady_ 's bridge, awaiting confirmation from the _Angel_ that all was well, and the passage through the corridor had been completed. 

__It came right on time, but something else demanded his attention at the exact same moment, something so bizarre and impossible that, at first, it failed to register in his mind._ _

__The alarms rose immediately, their electronic wail setting off shards of bright pain in his recently concussed brain, and both Arain Fer'mia and Palani Vau Bremayne leapt from their stations to try to figure out what was going on._ _

__Obi-Wan understood it first, and felt reality shift and flex around him as the horror became too obvious to avoid. Qui-Gon Jinn understood it second, mostly from the deep shock he accessed in his padawan's consciousness._ _

__Obi-Wan activated the narrow-beam com channel, and had to force himself to reign in his emotions, to keep from shouting._ _

" _Angel_ , come in. This is Kenobi." 

__"You need not shout, Padawan." That was re Caeri, with only a tiny twist of alarm spiking in his voice, betraying his concern._ _

__"What did she do?"_ _

__"How do you know . . ."_ _

__"Please," said the apprentice, barely able to restrain himself now. "What did she do?"_ _

__He looked up at the viewscreen, and saw it waver for a moment before becoming steady, resolving into the lovely, childish face._ _

"I closed it," she said, perfectly calm "The _Angel_ and I. She knew how, and I did it." 

__"What is she saying?" asked Captain Fer'mia. "Closed what?"_ _

__"She closed the corridor," answered Qui-Gon Jinn, moving closer to his padawan to offer whatever support his presence might provide._ _

__"But it's already closing," said Palani, "so what's the big deal?"_ _

__Obi-Wan, looking haunted, shook his head. "You don't understand. It was supposed to reopen in two decades. Now, it won't."_ _

__"Hold it," said Fer'mia, "how does a child close a space corridor? It's not possible."_ _

"Some kind of power source on the planet," said Obi-Wan, eyes dark and unbelieving. "She accessed it from the _Angel_ , and it generated a series of sustained bursts and somehow changed the dynamics of the passage. It won't re-open as it should." 

__"Then when?" asked Solitaire, obviously bewildered. Silence rose and lingered, deafening in its concentration._ _

__Oomy continued to look at Obi-Wan, but she was no longer solemn. Her smile was as gentle as a benediction. "You're safe now, my Obi. He won't be able to come after you. He would have, you know; two decades is nothing, when you're thirteen. Two centuries, though; that's a different thing entirely."_ _

__"Two centuries?" echoed Fer'mia._ _

__Obi-Wan merely nodded. "Oh, Oomy, I wish . . ."_ _

__"Don't," she said softly. "This is what I was supposed to do, what she meant for me to do. To make up for an existence that was never meant to be."_ _

__Obi-Wan covered his face with both hands, completely undone now. Completely devastated._ _

__"Master Qui-Gon?" Oomy's voice was steady._ _

__"Yes, Oomy, I'm here."_ _

__"We've done our part. Now it's up to you."_ _

__"I understand. I'll take care of him."_ _

__She sighed. "For a while. Not enough, of course, but it will have to do."_ _

__She leaned forward, and the image was gone, dissolved into the brilliance of the starscape._ _

__"Obi-Wan," said Qui-Gon softly._ _

__But Obi-Wan was not in the mood to listen to an explanation, or a lecture, or a commiseration._ _

__He stood, trying to find something to cling to, something to use for a handhold to prevent the downward spiral into chaos. There was nothing, so he did the only thing he could. He ran._ _

__****************** ***************** *****************  
tbc_ _


	39. Stars on the Ground

Chapter 39: Stars on the Ground

 

_Soon will be growing_  
_Green blades from her mound_ ,  
_And daisies be showing_  
_Like stars on the ground,_  
_Till she form part of them -_  
_Ay - the sweet heart of them,_  
_Loved beyond measure_  
_With a child's pleasure_  
_All her life's round._

 

\-- _Rain on a Grave_ \-- Thomas Hardy

 

He had never been terribly fond of good-byes, and now his life seemed to be composed of little else.

He had run from the truth of what had happened to the children of Mejanis, to Oomy and Xani and the others. Run as hard as he could, and as fast as he could, only to realize, very quickly, that there was really no place to run, and no way to outrun the grief that lapped at his footsteps and surged to engulf him. Finally, he had simply found himself a dark, deserted little niche, and allowed himself to be engulfed, to mourn, for all that had been lost and all that might have been.

He had not been totally successful in releasing all his anguish into the Force, but what he could not release, he had simply swallowed, and refused to discuss with anyone. Finally, well-meaning friends and acquaintances had simply acceded to his wishes, and left him alone, and he had found his way through a long night of the soul, as he always seemed to do, whenever there was no other choice. Only those who knew him very, very well had any suspicion that he had lost some small part of himself in the grief that he tucked away, out of sight of prying eyes, and only those who loved him well took a moment to wonder when it would all finally be too much, when all those tiny pieces of himself that he lost to the agonies he endured would mount up to the point where there would be nothing left. Sometimes he wondered that himself.

That devastating good-bye was behind him now, whether he liked it or not; it was time to confront the others.

He almost wished that he could convince himself that it was kinder - and justified - to simply take his leave in silence, like a thief in the night. But, of course, he couldn't do that. It wasn't appropriate. It wasn't Jedi, and even if it should turn out that he wasn't either, he found that relinquishing the habits of a lifetime was beyond difficult; it was virtually impossible.

He could have put it off, of course, but the Force disagreed, and, as he always had, he allowed it to guide his choices. With Qui-Gon up to his ears in trying to mediate the Drimulan attempts to create a new world government, Ramal Dyprio and his padawan assisting in re-establishing a functional infrastructure to enable the planetary population to regroup and begin rebuilding their ordinary lives, and Mirilent Soljan totally immersed in setting up healthcare centers to diagnose, evaluate, and treat victims of the war's final days of destruction, Obi-Wan thought it best if he made his farewells now, with little advance notice and virtually no fanfare.

When the moment arrived, he was surprised to find how extraordinarily difficult the task actually was.

The crew of the _Lady Ghost_ wasn't much for military assemblages; they were - and would forever remain - a ragtag lot, but Obi-Wan had pierced the torn veil under which they concealed themselves, the web of half-truths and quasi-legends, of old sins - and older sinners, all tightly woven to create a camouflage that cleverly engaged the preconceptions of the seer to determine what was seen. They would never be a spit-and-polish, top-drawer military unit; they would only be a skilled, crafty, elusive, but completely deadly fighting force, beautifully cohesive - but only when they needed to be.

They were still roughhewn; still without any lofty concepts of morality or ethics; still mostly concerned with their own narrow views of loyalty and justice, and Obi-Wan realized, with a flash of humility that gently tweaked his Jedi conceits, that he would put his life into their hands without a moment's hesitation. Their honor was not the stylized, ritualistic honor of the Jedi, but it was honor, nonetheless.

As he moved among them, their communion was mostly silent, sometimes tactile. Some shook his hand; some simply clasped his shoulder in passing. A few slapped him on the back; a few others aimed a bit lower, but there was nothing mean-spirited in it, even if a couple of those lingered perhaps a beat too long. It was their means of saying farewell, and he accepted each offering in the spirit in which it was given.

When he came, finally, to Palani Vau Bremayne, he looked up at her and was surprised to note the bright gleam of tears in her eyes.

"You could stay with us, you know," she said, somewhat hoarsely.

"Did you make me a sign?" he asked, with a tiny smile.

"What kind of sign?"

The smile became a grin. "How did it go now? Oh, yes. 'The fuck starts here.' Wasn't that it?"

She flushed. "Rain's got a big mouth," she muttered.

"Maybe," he answered, very gentle now, "but not, I think, as big as your heart."

And nobody, anywhere in the galaxy, was more astonished, or more confused, than the first mate of the _Lady Ghost_ when the exquisite young man looking up at her with those eyes that one might easily drown in, stepped forward and gathered her into his arms and kissed her - kissed her exceedingly well, breathtakingly well - as well as she'd ever been kissed before.

When he released her and stepped back, it was only the bulkhead located - happily - at her back that enabled her to stay on her feet, with some modicum of control.

There was a beat of silence, followed by an ear-splitting round of cheers and laughter, before the statuesque Corellian gathered her wits about her, stepped forward and dragged the youth against her, returning the kiss with added gusto - and added tongue - to the delight of the assembled crew.

When she released him, it was his turn to be slightly breathless and disoriented.

"Now get out of here," she whispered, "before I lose all sense of caution, and drag you off to the nearest empty bed."

He took a moment to caress her cheek gently, before asking. "Solitaire?"

"Packing, I think. You aren't the only one leaving us, it seems."

He nodded and turned away, to seek out the Weapons Master.

"Obi," called Palani, sounding somehow as if she would prefer to remain silent, but just couldn't.

"Yes?"

"You can always come back. Always."

His smile was gentle and bittersweet, and Palani suddenly felt a chill rising within her, that closed skeletal fingers around her heart. "I can't, but I thank you for the offer."

"Why can't you?" She really didn't want to know, he realized abruptly; he heard it in her tone. She had asked because she was compelled, somehow, to ask, but she really didn't want to know.

Which was fine, because he really didn't want to know either; he just had no choice. "There's something else I have to do," he answered finally, after a notable pause.

When he disappeared into the passageway, en route to Solitaire's quarters, the crew remained strangely quiet - almost motionless - for a few moments, almost as if something held them in place, something heavy and dark with foreboding, something that seemed to demand a silent tribute, without ever revealing why a tribute should be expected. 'Something else he had to do' was probably as unrevealing a description as the young man could possibly have volunteered; a totally generic, completely unspecific, formless, vague, nebulous nothing, with no hint as to its content or import, and, to a man, every single one of them suppressed a shudder, knowing that they would go from this chamber now, relieved beyond all measure that - whatever it was - it was not for them to do.

************ ****************** *****************

 

Her quarters were very much like the ones he had occupied; small, uncluttered, barren, and it appeared she traveled almost as lightly as he. Instead of one small bag, there were two standing beside the open hatch, along with a custom-designed, forcefield-secured weapons case, for those special items not secured on her person.

And there were plenty so secured, for she was back in full armor, except for the helmet, which lay beside her on the narrow bunk as she sat facing him.

"Where are you going?" he asked softly, reaching for her hands.

She shrugged. "I'm not sure, yet. Home for a little while, I guess, and then . . . wherever there's a need for my services."

"How will you get there?"

"Rain's loaning me a headhunter to get planetside, as soon as the techs finish changing out a motivator in the control circuits, and I'll hitch from there. There are dozens of ships bringing in relief supplies, so I won't have any trouble finding a ride."

"You know," he said softly, tentatively, "the Jedi often contract . . ."

"No."

"But you don't even know . . . ."

"I know all I need to know," she replied firmly. "No."

His smile was diffident. "Dislike my company that much, huh?"

There was no answering smile in her eyes. "Just the opposite, and that's the problem. And you know it as well as I. You're Jedi, and don't give me that wide-eyed, I-haven't-decided-yet look. Even if you never went back to the Temple, you'd still be Jedi, and I'd still be a gun-for-hire. If we tried to prolong whatever it was that happened between us, we'd just wind up killing each other."

He raised her hands to his mouth, and dropped light kisses on her palms. "We could try just being friends."

Now she smiled, and extracted one hand to reach up and brush fine strands of hair off his forehead. "We could - and we are friends, Obi - but I don't think there's any way we could guarantee that we could stick to it. And I don't think either one of us needs the distraction; it would probably just get us killed. I can't afford to be mooning over the dimples in your charming little ass when I should be worrying about where the next blaster bolt is coming from."

He sighed softly as she leaned forward and nestled her face in the hollow of his throat. "I'm really going to miss you," he breathed, allowing himself a tiny smile as he noted that she might have reverted to warrior dress, but she still smelled - exquisitely, beautifully - like a woman.

She nodded, not really trusting herself to speak.

"P'ryn," he said quietly, after a few moments of silent communion, "will I ever see you again?"

Abruptly, she pulled away, ducking her head in an attempt to keep him from noting the trail of her tears. "It's a small galaxy," she replied hoarsely. "Who knows?"

He studied her face for a moment, then reached out, ever so gently, through the Force - and was cut off completely by mental shielding that would have been impressive even in a Force-user; for one with no access to that power, it was truly remarkable. He was almost startled into asking her about it, but then realized that she would probably be outraged that he had even tried to touch her thoughts, and he reddened slightly, feeling marginally ashamed of the attempt.

"You've never even told me your last name," he said instead.

She looked at him then, and, for a brief instant, he saw something in her eyes that almost broke him, something that almost sent him to his knees begging, pleading for her to stay with him, or to allow him to stay with her. But it was gone as quickly as it had come, and he would never be able to put a name to it, or to explain why it should have raised such a compulsion. "No," she agreed, "I haven't. And I'm asking you, as a personal favor to me, to respect my wishes, and not attempt to find it. I know you could, since you know of my family connection to the Temple, but I'm asking you not to."

"But why? What's so . . ."

"I can't explain," she said firmly, almost wincing as she saw the hurt rising in his eyes, "but it's important to me. Please, do this for me."

Finally, reluctantly, he nodded.

Abruptly, briskly, she rose and reached for her helmet. "Time to go."

He stood as well, resigned to watching her walk out of his life, but not quite yet. 

He pulled her into his arms, ignoring the small flare of angry resistance that flared in her eyes, and dropped soft kisses along her jaw line and down her throat.

"Stop that," she demanded, but her traitorous body betrayed her by snuggling into his warmth.

"Ummm, in a minute," he murmured, now exploring the soft skin beneath her ear. "You taste like mint."

"That's soap," she replied drily.

"Ummm, whatever. Why don't you . . ."

She drew away and stared up at him, and smiled. "Why don't you . . . just shut up," she said, threading her arms around his neck and dragging his face down to meet his lips with her own.

It rapidly became a very deep, very thorough, very memorable kiss, one that neither one was eager to terminate.

Finally, one of them - and neither was entirely sure which - sighed and stepped back.

Their eyes remained locked, as she moved away, until she resolutely fitted the helmet over her head and locked it in place. At that point, of course, he could no longer see her eyes, but he still felt her gaze, as she bent to pick up her gear.

"I'll never forget you," he said finally, as she moved toward the doorway.

There was a soft sound that might have been a sigh, and she replied, "I know."

And she was gone.

*************** **************** ***************

Captain Fer'mia was in his quarters, and in a foul mood to boot. This was a condition which occurred only very rarely, a circumstance for which his crew was endlessly thankful, for Fer'mia in a foul mood was a harbinger of extremely bad tidings for anyone who happened to cross his path.

And the perfect target for his swelling hostility stepped into his cabin with absolutely no advanced warning.

Obi-Wan saw the Drimulan standing motionless before the curvature of his private view port, a dark silhouette against the spangled splendor of the starscape. 

"Rain, I . . ."

"You needn't have bothered," came the rich baritone voice. "I knew you were going. Everything that needs to be said has been said already. So just go."

"I can't," replied the young Jedi, refusing to be intimidated by the coldness of Fer'mia's tone.

"Of course you can. Nothing's holding you here." So saying, the captain turned away from his contemplation of the heavens and moved to drop with boneless grace into his desk chair. There was a measured insolence in his movements, and more than a spark of resentment.

"Are you angry with me, Captain?" Obi-Wan asked, genuinely curious.

"Now why would I be angry with you?" The Drimulan propped his feet on his desk in a decidedly leisurely manner, but his indolent posture did not camouflage the smoldering embers in his eyes.

Obi-Wan leaned over the desk, and met the captain's glare without flinching. "I don't know, but I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"Wrong," snapped Fer'mia. "I'm not obligated to tell you a damned thing."

Obi-Wan was silent for a moment, before straightening, and moving to take the spot where the Drimulan had stood only moments before. "Okay," he said softly, eyes sweeping the drift of a nearby nebula. "Then let _me_ tell _you_. You rescued me, gave me a home and a purpose and a new life. Made a place for me among you." He turned to stare at the captain, and waited until Fer'mia met his gaze. "How am I doing so far?"

Fer'mia said nothing, but there was something dark and bruised in his face.

"You offered me acceptance and loyalty and family. And I'm throwing it all back in your face. That's what you see, isn't it?"

Abruptly, the Drimulan stood and moved, without any trace of his customary grace, toward his cabin door. "Just go," he snarled, suddenly not trusting himself to speak sensibly. "There's nothing holding you here. You don't owe us anything; any debt you might have had, which would have been damned small, you've paid, a thousand times over. So just go."

Obi-Wan moved forward quickly, and stopped directly in front of the captain, every line of his body speaking of a willingness to submit himself for summary judgment. "You're wrong," he said. "There are many things holding me here, my feelings for you first among them. There aren't words to tell you what you've meant to me. I never knew my father, Rain; family ties are not the Jedi way, you know. But you . . . I wish . . ."

Fer'mia, who had been studiously avoiding the young man's eyes, looked up abruptly and read the emotions rampant in Obi-Wan's face, and drew a deep, shuddering breath. "You want to stay with us, don't you?"

The young Jedi smiled and looked away, overwhelmed by the intensity of Fer'mia's compassion. "Part of me does. For the first time in my life, I didn't have to prove myself worthy of anything. I just had to be me; I've never known anything like that before."

The Drimulan reached out and laid his hands on the youth's shoulders. "Then stay with us, Obi-Wan. You'll have a good life, a rich, full, productive life, here. I promise you that. And you'll never have to prove that you deserve it. We all know that you deserve whatever there is in life that's good and decent and wonderful. Please, stay with us."

Impulsively, the young Jedi stepped forward, into the embrace of the Drimulan, and found himself enfolded in strong arms, arms as strong and, in a way, as protective as those that had sheltered him so often in the early years of his apprenticeship. He said nothing, and the two just stood for a while, in silence, communing without words.

It was Fer'mia, finally, who broke the silence and the embrace. "You're still going, aren't you?" His voice was thick now, with emotions unspoken, perhaps unspeakable.

Obi-Wan nodded, eyes lowered to conceal a gloss of tears. "No choice."

"There's always a choice," replied the captain, placing a steady hand on the nape of the youth's neck, "and no choices are irrevocable. Go, and do what you have to do, Obi. Then come back to us. We'll still be here."

Obi-Wan raised his hand, and grasped Fer'mia's fingers with a quick squeeze before turning to go.

"Obi-Wan?"

He paused, feeling the pain flare within him.

"You won't be coming back, will you?"

He said nothing, unable finally to confirm it, as if by refusing to say it, he could deny the undeniable.

When he walked away and disappeared into the corridor, Arain Fer'mia returned to his contemplation of the splendor of the galaxy, determined to ignore the cold, hard, agonizing twist of emptiness that roiled within him.

He was not a fatalist; had no belief in precognition or predestination; knew few things in life, as certainties.

But he knew one. He would never see Obi-Wan Kenobi again.

He was right.

*************** ***************** ***************

The old headhunter wasn't much to look at, dinged and dinted and bearing the scars of a hundred close calls and a thousand minor contusions, but where it counted, inside the battered hull, she was the same sweet little machine she had been when turned off the assembly line some three decades earlier, and maybe even just a tiny bit better. Headhunters were beloved of mechanics all across the galaxy, because they were amenable to endless tinkering and tweaking and innovation, every alteration adding a bit of increased power or agility.

Solitaire had stowed her gear in the tiny storage bin, supervised the final fueling, and then moved aside while the technicians completed the final calibration of the motivator they had just installed.

She had seen Obi-Wan when he came sprinting into the shuttle bay and moved into a convenient alcove to avoid catching his eye as he raced up the boarding ramp of the Republic courier ship that had been left for his use. 

Their good-byes had already been said, and Solitaire allowed herself one huge sigh of relief as the scarlet and silver vessel lifted off from the bay floor, rotated in place, and plunged through the exit doors.

She had done it, and she would be the first to admit that it had been a near thing; that the only reason she had been able to do it was because young Kenobi was too much of a gentleman to really push against her shielding. She had absolutely no doubt that, had he chosen to do so, he could have shredded her pathetic little mind barriers like wet paper.

She relaxed abruptly, and flexed weary, overtaxed muscles through her back and shoulders, weary from hours - even days - of constant vigilance. One slip would have been one too many.

"Ready, Soli," called the chief tech, as he closed the access port to the headhunter's control panels. "She won't outrun any big Corellian jobs, but she'll get you to the spaceport easy enough."

"Thanks, Guzzy," she said absently, adjusting her helmet lock. Since the entire crew had, by this time, been apprised of who and what she was, under the armor, it mattered little if anyone aboard the _Lady_ caught a glimpse of her true appearance, but she had no intention of allowing her true persona to be on display for the strangers she would encounter once she left this place. The stern, dangerous image of Solitaire, Weapons Master, was as much a part of her self defense as her skill with her weaponry, and it was time to step back into the role.

Almost, she amended, as she looked up and spotted a familiar figure making his way toward her.

She waited quietly, acknowledging to herself that there were very few persons in the galaxy for whom she would willingly interrupt whatever she happened to be engaged in, but this one was probably close to the top of that short list.

"Captain," she said softly, as Fer'mia approached, his eyes sweeping the headhunter, while asking for - and receiving - non-verbal confirmation of its readiness, from the chief technician.

The Drimulan stopped and regarded her coolly, gray-green eyes filled with speculation, as they drifted from her face, still partly visible within the untoggled helmet, down the length of her body.

Unexpectedly, Solitaire squirmed, uncertain of the reason for his unprecedented inspection.

His eyes lifted again, and returned to her face, and he smiled. "You didn't tell him."

"Tell him what?"

Fer'mia settled himself on a storage cube and crossed his arms. "I'm the captain of this ship, Soli. That means I see everything that goes on. Sometimes I notice things; sometimes I don't. This time, I did, and so did Rakoo. What I can't figure out is how you hid it from him. I mean, he's Jedi; shouldn't he have felt something?"

She sighed and found a cube of her own. "I learned shielding from a pro, Rain, a Jedi every bit as strong as he is. That's the only thing I ever learned from her, but I've had good cause to be grateful for that one skill. And never, I might add, more grateful than I have been for the last few days."

"What are you going to do?" It wasn't idle curiosity; that much, she could tell. Otherwise, she would simply have ignored the question.

"You offering any advice?" she asked, with a small smile.

Which he answered in kind. "Not my area of expertise, but there are always alternatives."

"No," she said firmly. "In this case, there aren't. I'm going back to Corellia, find myself a quiet, secluded little town where people don't ask too many questions, and . . ."

"And?"

"And give birth to my son," she replied firmly, her eyes warm and filled with a softness that Fer'mia had never seen in them before.

"Are you sure?" he asked, finally, after due consideration. "Even today, raising a child alone isn't easy."

"I know, but it's what I want."

He nodded, but his gaze sharpened abruptly. "Why didn't you tell him?"

"Because I didn't want him to know."

"But he'd have stayed with you, and your child would have had two parents. You know he would have."

She looked into his eyes and smiled. "Yes, he would."

And the captain paused - and thought about it - and finally nodded. "If he ever finds out . . ."

"He won't," she said firmly. "He has a destiny to fulfill, Captain, and so do I. They just don't happen to coincide."

Fer'mia rose, and stared for a moment out into the darkness of space beyond the launch doors. "Funny, you know. That 'destiny' of his that everybody keeps talking about, you have to wonder how much it's going to cost him, when all is said and done."

She closed her eyes briefly, and tried to still the tremor that rose within her, but it was a useless attempt. The tremor, or some small trace of it, would be with her always, from this time forward. She knew it, just as she knew the answer to his idle curiosity.

"Everything," she said finally. "In the end, it will cost him everything."

The captain's eyes were bleak and filled with mourning as he turned to stare at her once more. "Is that why you're going through with this?"

She smiled. "I'm going through with this, because I want a child of my own, Captain; I have for a long time. I just never found the perfect candidate for the job of fathering one, until now. But if my son is the only legacy he ever has, then I'm honored to provide it."

He nodded and reached out to grasp her hands briefly, as she moved toward her transport.

"Soli," he called softly, "I don't even know how to reach you. How do I get in touch with you?"

"Why would you need to do that?" she demanded, fastening her helmet.

He shrugged. "You never know. What if it's something about him? Even if he's not here, I do have contacts on Coruscant, you know. Maybe there'll be something you'd need to know."

She regarded him silently for a few minutes, obviously weighing a decision. She also had contacts on Coruscant, better ones than Fer'mia's, in fact, but the information she might expect to beg, borrow, steal, or wheedle out of her Jedi cousin would probably be heavy on official fact, and hopelessly light on personal data. And official Jedi information, as long as it wasn't classified, was pretty much available to anyone with the time and patience to research it on the galactic net.

It was the rumor mill, the meat and potatoes of gossip, that would provide any personal information she might need. And, for that, Fer'mia's contacts would be vastly superior.

Finally, she nodded, and dug a com-chip out of one of her belt pockets. "I trust you to keep this safely tucked away," she said sternly, "and mention it to no one. But if you ever need to reach me, use that chip through the Corellian exchange, and give whoever responds my real name."

"Which is what?" he asked, pocketing the chip.

He heard rather than saw the huff of silent laughter. "Not so different from the one you know," she answered. "Not Solitaire, though. Just . . . Solo. P'ryn Solo, daughter of R'Han and Mirisch."

He nodded and smiled. "How do you know it's a boy?"

And she laughed. "It's the offspring of Obi-Wan Kenobi. What else would it be?"

Which was, of course, pure, irrational, illogical nonsense, but somehow, he was pretty sure she was right.

 

*************** ****************** ******************

It had been hoped by the Jedi Council that the representatives of the order already on site on Drimula would be sufficient to wrap up the various negotiations and restructuring that was required to get the planet back on the path to recovery within a reasonable period of time. But no one had taken into consideration the volatile, argumentative nature of the population or the severity of the damage to the environment. Thus, two weeks into the Jedi effort, the amount of progress made was vanishingly small, and the Jedi in place were exhibiting stress levels almost unprecedented within the Order. 

Mirilent Soljan, by virtue of being a healer, was less constrained by protocol than her diplomatic counterparts, and had spent ten days setting up triage operations in a group of clinics in the mountainous areas of the planet, the areas most heavily damaged by mining operations, only to be informed, when she revisited the facilities for routine inspections, that her instructions for determining the priorities of which victims should be attended first, had been rescinded - not for medical reasons, but for economic ones. Those who could afford to pay were to be tended first, according to the local ruling council, and those who could pay more, went to the front of the queue. 

It was only due to the random element of sheerest circumstance - in the fact that, on that particular day, Padawan Barosse happened to be assigned to assist the healer - that Mira had been restrained from rearranging the face of the chairman of the local council, with a laser scalpel, or, failing that, a lightsaber.

At the conclusion of the day, having been summarily hauled out of the Council office by an openly frustrated young Jedi padawan learner, who was, herself, rapidly losing all patience, the Master Healer had contacted the Jedi Temple and advised that teams of non-Jedi emergency medical workers should be dispatched to Drimula immediately as she "would personally attempt to extract an abscessed tooth from an unanesthetized rancor before she would touch another Drimulan, unless it was to commit bodily mayhem."

Master Ramal Dyprio's efforts to re-establish infrastructure and organize necessary social services had met with similar obstacles, resulting in the swarthy Corellian Jedi locking himself away in his quarters after a week of futile effort, and proceeding to consume an entire bottle of a very old, very expensive, very potent type of Drimulan brandy, after which he had called the Drimulan chancellor of emergency relief efforts a "frog-faced old piss-ant with delusions of godhood" before taking himself off in search of a "hot tub, a hot meal, and a companion to share both, preferably also of the 'hot' persuasion." He was more than a bit drunk when he said it, of course, but it carried an undeniable ring of truth as he wandered off into the night. 

This little tirade came, of course, much to the delight of his over-taxed padawan, who was forced to conceal her glee beneath a sober demeanor as the chancellor in question and his voluble staff had chosen to vent their verbal outrage on the apprentice, lacking access to - or attention from - the Master. Ciara had accepted the abusive commentary for what seemed an eternity, before finally - in desperation - drawing and igniting her lightsaber, to the consternation and absolute terror of the chancellor and his staff. When she calmly used it to sever a cobweb dangling from a light fixture, they had all heaved a sigh of relief, but the look in the girl's eyes had suggested that they might do well to drop the subject of their previous discussion.

And then, there was Master Jinn - the legendary Master Jinn; the quintessential diplomat, Master Jinn, who had been responsible, in the course of his lifetime, for more mediated agreements, more equitable compromises, more treaties worked out against impossible odds, than any other Jedi knight in history.

By day fourteen, the Master felt as if he were dangling over a precipice, with the full horror of the Darkside laid out below him, and he was almost ready to give it up and grab for the darkness in the (probably foolish) hope of getting this band of fools to simply s-h-u-t u-p! The words they hurled at each other had ceased to have any meaning days ago; it was all just gibberish and posturing, and he frankly was to the point where he wondered if he shouldn't just arm everybody and let them kill each other.

On day fifteen, an historical event happened, one that would never occur again; Qui-Gon Jinn threw in the towel. Or - more accurately - the banner, as in a brightly colored, hand-sewn ceremonial Battle Flag of the B'rinza Regiment, of great social and historical significance to all the negotiating parties, which had been raised each morning to signify the opening of each negotiating session. On this particular morning, the Jedi Master had raised it, as he had for the fourteen preceding mornings, and had cringed as a deafening din of bellowing and shrieks had rolled over him, a din that was virtually a duplicate of the din that had erupted every single morning of the negotiations, that had diminished not in the least, and that showed no sign of ever subsiding.

He had waited five minutes, staring down at the agenda laid out before him, an agenda including one hundred and sixty-three separate items. As of that moment, they had managed to address exactly eight of them, in some small degree.

He had looked up as the representative from the maritime merchants' guild had stood in the middle of the pandemonium, red-faced and near hysteria, shrieking about a point of order. Qui-Gon had actually smiled. A point of order? In the midst of this chaos?  
It had been the final insult, the feather that finally broke the bantha's back. 

He had risen to his feet, grabbed the scarlet and gold B'rinza banner from its ridiculous little gilded stand, and hurled it, still attached to its spindly pole, at the feet of the maritime spokesman, using Force-enhancement to make his point. The pole had buried itself into the stone flooring, to a depth of almost six inches, and the maritime spokesman had fainted dead away. The bright swatch of the battle flag had been unharmed, as the Master had intended, but neither the floor nor the flag pole itself would ever be the same.

The parliamentary chamber had been plunged into total silence, and Master Jinn thought it the loveliest sound he had ever heard.

He had smiled, nodded to the nearest delegates, the ones who were wild-eyed with panic, collected his agenda and his briefing materials, and calmly made his exit.

Five minutes later, he was speaking, via secure com-link, to the Jedi Council, advising that they could either send a full diplomatic team, consisting of three skilled Master/Padawan duos, to replace him, or they could simply blast the planet into oblivion. He frankly couldn't be bothered to care which course they chose.

The Council was stunned into silence, faced with an unprecedented development. Qui-Gon Jinn had never, in his long years of Jedi service, admitted defeat in such a situation. It was unheard of; it was intolerable. It was also an unavoidable fact, as he absolutely refused to reconsider, stating that he had other matters to pursue.

He then signed off, and never spared another thought for Drimula, or its fate.

************* ******************* ****************

"What do you mean, he's gone?"

Few indeed were the people who had ever seen a Jedi Master in the grip of a rage almost too overpowering to control, and the few that were seeing it now were convinced that they'd have been content never to see it at all.

Except, of course, for Arain Fer'mia, who remained, somehow, cool and unperturbed as he stared into Master Jinn's midnight blue eyes, eyes which had darkened dramatically, to near ebony, as he'd comprehended what the Drimulan was saying.

"Gone," repeated Fer'mia. "What part of that word don't you understand?"

"Gone where, and when?" The words were clipped, staccato, iced.

"As to when," replied the captain, also very precise, "five days ago. As to where, your guess is as good as mine. He's hardly a child to be compelled to provide an itinerary."

"And how?"

"In the Republic transport that was left for his use; how else?"

Qui-Gon Jinn paused, and appeared lost in thought for several minutes. "He wouldn't use an official Republic vessel for personal purposes."

"Uhhhmmmm," Ciara Barosse interjected, reluctantly, "I wouldn't be so sure of that."

Master Jinn's eyes were hard as he turned to stare at her, as hard as his voice when he spoke. "If you know something about this, Padawan, you'd be wise to spill it. Now."

"Just hold on, there," said Ramal Dyprio, stepping forward briskly. "If my padawan has information, she will provide it, to me! Are we clear on that?"

Qui-Gon's hesitation was miniscule, but not nearly brief enough to escape Dyprio's notice, and the Corellian Master's eyes glinted with ice.

"Of course," said Master Jinn finally, but he made no effort to disguise the impatience in his tone.

"Padawan?" said Master Ramal. "Do you know anything? Did Obi-Wan tell you where he was going?"

"No, Master," she replied softly, grateful for his intervention but still feeling some small measure of sympathy for Master Jinn, a sympathy that she definitely did not want to feel. What she wanted was to hold on to the righteous anger she had felt toward Obi-Wan's Master since this whole debacle had begun.

Unfortunately, when she lifted her eyes to gaze into Qui-Gon's face, she saw facets of the man that she had never seen before, never wanted to see, and didn't want to see now. Part of him was broken; there was no other way to phrase it. Just as part of Obi-Wan was broken. And now she had to decide, with very little in the way of guidance to help her, if the two broken souls might be able to mend each other.

Finally, she sighed. "Master Jinn, I don't know much, and I may be completely off the mark. He said a couple of things that didn't make much sense to me, but I think they might make sense to you."

Qui-Gon stepped forward, and took the girl's fingers in his massive hand as he looked down into her lovely eyes. "Padawan, I know you have your doubts about me, about my devotion to Obi-Wan, but I swear to you that I want nothing more than to help him, to heal him, and to bring him back to where he belongs. Please, help me."

She was silent for several long moments, biting her lip in concentration. Finally, she looked up and nodded. "He said he would bring her home, if it was the last thing he ever did. That she deserved to go home."

"Bring who home?" asked her Master, obviously still confused.

But Ciara shook her head. "I don't know, Master, but I think Master Qui-Gon does."

Qui-Gon closed his eyes and knew immediately where he would find his padawan, always providing that Obi-Wan had been successful in his quest.

He would go to attempt to reclaim his apprentice from the world that had spawned him, that had given him over to the Jedi in the first place - a hostile world, inimical to Force users, primitive and superstitious in the extreme.

A dangerous world.

It was time to go back to K'hiria Melas.

************ ********************* ****************

Maleonaka Sirvik had been a dedicated scientist throughout his career, but his career was effectively over now, and he was more than willing to be considered a bit of a dilettante at this stage of his life. In a laboratory, he had been something of a prodigy, establishing his reputation at an early age, and re-proving himself with the passing years, demonstrating both empirical brilliance and the ability to grasp and develop inspiration which was so necessary to successful researchers, but also so elusive. It was not a quality one could learn. One either had it, or one didn't. Doctor Sirvik had it, and enjoyed the power it gave him.

Despite his demonstrable brilliance, he had never been a particularly arrogant man,but neither was he particularly patient, and had rapidly developed a reputation for not suffering fools gladly, or, preferably, not suffering them at all.

He was also renowned for his refusal to develop skills which he considered beneath either his intellect or his interest.

Thus he had never learned to pilot a ship, relegating such skills to the level of menial labor.

Which meant that, at this particular moment, he was stuck - stuck in the big fat middle of nowhere, on a tiny planet with a huge crescent moon, a planet he had not even bothered to identify - while General Ozvey, surely the most notable refugee of the Drimulan high command, engaged in his silly, little clandestine rendezvous with some no-doubt nefarious outer rim warlord.

Ozvey had been gone for several hours now, having assured Sirvik that he would be back before morning, at which time he would fly the lovely little yacht that Sirvik had inherited - more or less - from N'Vell, to a nearby spacedock where he would disembark, and Sirvik would be able to engage a competent pilot to see him to his final destination.

Sirvik lolled in a contoured seat at the navigation station and indulged himself in his favorite fantasy, featuring the lovely, little island to which he was bound.

He and N'Vell had purchased it several years ago and spent an enormous amount of money and effort in converting it from a primitive, deserted island into a retreat that would lack for nothing. Every possible creature comfort, every possible need had been anticipated.

They had created paradise, and all that was left for him to do was to claim it.

Once there, atop the mountain that overlooked a semi-tropical sea, he would be invincible and invisible. No one would ever find him there, for there was no one who would even know where to look.

And there, he would indulge himself as a dabbler, dabbling in the arts, in social circles where he could move with impunity. Perhaps he would take up winemaking, a subject that had always fascinated him - or perhaps he would become a collector, a connoisseur of objects of great value and great beauty; perhaps he would, at long last, find himself a soul mate, to share his leisure. He closed his eyes and immediately an image formed behind his eyelids - the image of that exquisite little Jedi, with the remarkably luminous smile and the luscious, lithe young body.

Sirvik heaved a deep sigh. Yes, such a companion would help enormously in taking pleasure in his golden years. Of course, he'd probably have to buy one, and such a creature would certainly not come cheap, but the Drimulan experience had assured that he would never be short of funds again, not if he lived a dozen lifetimes.

He looked around at the command deck of the small yacht, and allowed himself a rush of pleasure. It was a beautiful little vessel, absolutely state-of-the-art, and designed for maximum efficiency without sacrificing elegance or visual appeal. During the flight out of Drimula, he had indulged his curiosity, poking around in areas that had been part of N'Vell's secure quarters, and strictly off-limits to anyone not specifically invited.

Sirvik had never been invited.

Strangely, he and N'Vell had shared a professional association much deeper than most friendships; deeper even than many marital relationships. There had been few secrets between them, and very little pretense or subterfuge. Yet, they had never shared intimate thoughts or moments. Their personal spaces had remained just that - personal, and not available for sharing.

He had found N'Vell's boudoir to be something of a revelation, as he discovered a treasure trove of oddments and foibles that revealed aspects of her personality that he had never fully understood. Oh, he had always known that she had a penchant for darkness, that there was little of light or goodness or purity within her. But not even he had suspected the depth of her obsessions. He had known, for example, that she had hated the Jedi, hungering for their destruction as a means of revenge for what she considered the murder of her brother; had known, as well, that her hatred had centered on Qui-Gon Jinn for his role in Xanatos' final fall. But even he had not suspected the depth of her obsession with young Kenobi. In a compartment in the antique desk in her quarters, he had discovered a cache of holo-discs, dozens of them - each containing hundreds of images of Obi-Wan Kenobi, dating from his earliest years as Jinn's apprentice to very recent history. Kenobi, in every possible situation, every possible condition - laughing, crying, exultant, lost, hurt, fighting, running, playing, sleeping. Sirvik couldn't imagine how anyone had managed to accumulate such a collection.

There were also volumes of files on every conceivable aspect of Jedi life, and on most of the better known Jedi Masters, including, of course, Qui-Gon himself.

Sirvik studied the visage of the dignified Master and found it to be quite beautiful, in a rugged, masculine sort of way. Not as exquisite and dew-kissed as the padawan, of course; there was nothing, after all, quite so delectable as virginal innocence, even when it was neither exactly virginal, nor entirely innocent; but the Master had a nobility and a patrician quality that the holo-portraits captured perfectly.

In his exploration, Sirvik had also found that he had never fully appreciated the capacity of N'Vell's hunger for luxury, a hunger revealed by the luxurious spunsilk of her bedding; the dozen cut crystal containers of a perfume that was created by an order of penitents on a remote planet in the Viggaran cluster, in such limited quantity that not one person in a million in the galaxy would ever even smell the scent; undergarments hand embroidered with threads spun from precious metals and gems ground to powder and spun into fragile fibers, then reinforced with hand-applied coatings of pearlesque resins. Jewels beyond price; rare furs that even he, with all his legendary sophistication, could not recognize. Luxury upon luxury upon luxury - all for the enjoyment of a woman who obviously could never be satisfied with anything less than the most sumptuous, most elegant, most expensive indulgences money could buy.

Above and beyond all of that, he had found one more thing - one thing that surprised him above all else, although, when he stopped to think about it, he realized that it really shouldn't have. Although he had not yet figured out exactly how it could have been activated, but he would, in time.

In a shallow alcove built into the back of a closet that was considerably bigger than most bedrooms, he had discovered a stasis unit - fully functional, and obviously meant to provide ultimate protection for the lady of the boudoir in the event of catastrophic systems failure in the yacht. This was in addition, of course, to the four perfectly serviceable escape pods that were situated around the perimeter of the ship.

But the unit in N'Vell's cabin had some extra-special features, of course, for the convenience of the lady. A person placed in the stasis chamber would, once the unit was activated, simply sleep through whatever followed, preserved in perfect health, ageless, painless, and unaware of the passage of time or space. There would be no concerns about a lack of food or water or air; the body would be suspended in space and time, and, of course, perfectly revivable at the end of the journey.

Sirvik had had no trouble recognizing the chamber for what it was, of course; it was virtually identical to the units used for the development and subsequent storage of clone bodies, units with which he had worked for decades. He was rather surprised, and somehow pleased, that N'Vell had been clever enough to adapt the chamber for use as a customized escape pod.

He had walked around the ship several times over the course of the evening; had tried scrolling through the yacht's selection of holo-tapes, paging through the ship's library for an interesting new piece of fiction. He had eaten, had bathed, had listened to an entire Rel-Queesian symphony. 

He knew he should sleep, but somehow he couldn't. Not yet. He had the strangest feeling that there was something he had forgotten, something that he really should do, but he couldn't think what it was.

Abruptly, he rose and moved into the galley, remembering a decanter of very fine, very rare Gascomade liqueur he had spotted in the tiny wine cellarette. That was just what he needed, something to take the edge off, to ease his edginess.

Then he could sleep.

He poured himself a hefty portion into a bulbous snifter, and thought that he'd just take a quick turn around the ship's perimeter, catching a bit of fresh air, before he tried to sleep.

He keyed the hatch open, and strolled out into the night, breathing deeply of the fragrances of the darkness, heavy, powerful scents, like night-blooming jasmine, only stronger, more intense. And beneath the floral perfumes, something darker and more primal. Overhead, the enormous quarter moon was extraordinarily bright, the color of hammered gold, with a tiny little crust of sapphire at its inner edge. Colorful, that, and very striking.

Sirvik paused to enjoy the velvety sensations of the evening, feeling the richness of it against his skin like a cloak.

He inhaled deeply, but found the heaviness of the air somewhat cloying, even stifling. He was less than half way around the landing area when he decided that the night was, perhaps, not quite so pleasant as he had first believed and turned to retrace his steps.

And there she was, waiting for him, her face a mask of carved ice beneath the dark wings of her hair.

"How?" he asked, but even as he said it, he realized that he was not really surprised.

Nor was he surprised by the tiny, almost delicate blaster she held in her hand.

"Oh, come on, Mali," she said coldly. "Surely you've explored the ship by now. You've seen the stasis chamber. Don't tell me you haven't figured it out."

He saw it all abruptly and smiled. "I have to give you credit, my dear. Other people grow a clone for spare parts, just in case. You grew one as a throw-away, to take your place in a pinch. Did you install the slave tag as well, so you could control her words and actions?"

"Very good," she replied. "Nice to see that your intellect is still working, even if your loyalty deserted you somewhere along the way."

"What are you talking about?" he asked, feigning ignorance.

"The padawan still lives," she observed, "or, at least, he did. That may no longer be true, but, if not, it's no thanks to you. You developed an antidote, and you gave it to them. You gave it to the people who tried to kill me."

"N'Vell," he said, spreading his hands, the picture of reason, he hoped, "the boy didn't try to kill you. He's just . . ."

"Just what?" she snapped. "Just an innocent child. Just a pretty baby. Just a sweet little ass that you'd like to drag into your bed?"

Sirvik felt the rage radiating off her, like heat, and felt a corresponding coldness within himself. There would be no reasoning with her in this mood, but perhaps he could delay her, keep her talking just long enough to take the edge off her fury. Maybe then . . .

"You're a pathetic weakling, Mali. I always knew it, but, at one time, I needed you, for my work. But my work is finished except for one thing. One more task to complete, and for that one thing, I don't need you any more."

He nodded. "And that one thing would be?"

She smiled, but it didn't touch her eyes. "No longer of any interest to you," she answered- and discharged the blaster, putting a scarlet beam of deadly light directly through Sirvik's heart.

Brath Ozvey materialized out of the shadows near the boarding ramp, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. 

N'Vell Aji moved toward him, and took the arm he extended. "Shall we?" she asked.

The smile grew, as he glanced toward Sirvik's body, crumpled against a landing strut. "Should I do something about the garbage?"

She laughed. "If I'm not mistaken, I think I just did."

And the good ship, _Witch's Moon_ , lifted into the silver-stroked darkness and traced its path toward a distant star, circled by a jeweled planet on which a tiny, utopian island lay circled by turquoise seas, waiting to provide refuge for a pair of criminals, a place where they could enjoy the fruits of their ill-gotten gains and bide their time.

A place where they could recoup and plan for bright, profitable, satisfactory tomorrows, and anticipate the sweet, succulent taste - of revenge.

************** ***************** *****************

It had not, after all, been terribly difficult to find him. Once they had been sure that he had, indeed, found that which he had gone to the Telos system to retrieve, it had been nothing more than a simple exercise in scanning the target planet for the energy signature of a Republic vessel. A call to the Temple had confirmed that K'hiria Melas had developed little technologically in the years since Obi-Wan had been recruited for the Jedi; thus there was little danger of their descent into the planet's atmosphere being detected by anyone.

Ciara Barosse, with typical precision, set them down within sight of the smaller, more battered transport that Obi-Wan had used. She didn't bother to shut off the engines, just putting them into idle as she turned to look up at Master Qui-Gon who was, in turn, looking at Ramal Dyprio.

"Are you sure?" asked the Corellian, with a rueful smile. "It's a long walk back to Coruscant."

Qui-Gon nodded. "I'm sure. If he refuses to return . . . ."

Dyprio's eyes were dark with sympathy. "Go on. If he refuses?"

Master Jinn drew a deep breath. "If, by my stubbornness and willful blindness, I have cost Obi-Wan his knighthood and cost the Jedi the services of one of its brightest, then I have no further desire to continue my association with the Order."

Slowly, but with growing certainty, he pulled his lightsaber from his belt and extended it to the Corellian Master. 

"No," said Dyprio, "that's premature."

"Please," said Qui-Gon, "I want you to take it. If this doesn't work out, it will be easier for me this way. Without him, I don't want to have to return to the Temple. It will be simpler this way."

With obvious reluctance, the Corellian accepted the saber, and attached it to his belt, beside his own. "For safe keeping," he said hoarsely.

Qui-Gon gazed at his counterpart for a moment, then smiled. "I thought you didn't like me."

"I don't," said Dyprio sharply, "but the Order can't afford to lose skilled knights or padawans."

"In that case," said Master Jinn, "I'd better go get this one."

"Master Jinn," said Ciara, barely audible, voice trembling.

Gently, he laid his hand on her shoulder. "Yes, Little One?"

"Bring him back to us," she breathed. "We need him and he needs us, whether he admits it or not."

"I'll try, Ciara," he assured her.

Her smile was shaky. "Do or do not, Master; there is no try."

Ramal Dyprio's smile was warm and affectionate. "Cheeky, isn't she?"

Master Jinn's eyes were bright with appreciation and memory. "The best ones always are, aren't they?"

The Corellian nodded. "Now go get yours, and afterwards, we can chain them both in the bowels of the Temple and beat the sass out of them. If we do it tag-team style, it should only take us - oh - a dozen years or so."

Qui-Gon turned to depart and drew a deep cleansing breath, acknowledging that it was a tiny delaying tactic, a cover for the shadow within him that made his steps hesitant.

"There is no fear." It became his mantra as he made his exit. "There is no fear. There is no fear."

As he stepped off the boarding ramp and felt the crunch of crystalline sand under his boots, he had a moment of complete disorientation, a memory of such brilliant clarity that it almost overwhelmed him. As the transport lifted into the clarity of the morning, he allowed himself to sink into the memory. 

_It had happened just after Obi-Wan's fifteenth birthday, on a tiny little planetoid bordering on the Corporate Sector, where a baccumast mining facility had been virtually shut down by a series of deadly, incredibly violent attacks which had resulted in the deaths of more than a dozen miners._

_Ordinarily, under such a threat, the mine would have been closed down while an intense investigation was launched and extreme security measures enacted, but such a response was impossible in this case, as the baccumast obtained from the mine was the only known source of a form of natural metabolic enzyme used in the treatment of a particularly virulent strain of vegetative blight currently afflicting the core world of Ord Mandell. Interruption of the supply of the mineral would spell certain world-wide disaster for the heavily populated planet._

_Thus the Jedi had been dispatched - Master Jinn and his teen-aged padawan - to find the cause, and insure the safety of the installation._

_It only took them two days to locate the problem, which was a bit of a misconception. In truth, it was the problem which located them._

_The beast that had come ravening, slavering and gibbering, from the black depths of the mine had been as large as a mature bantha, and a whole lot meaner, and Obi-Wan, exercising the better part of valor and slowly backing away from the creature's steady advance, had stared at his Master with complete incredulity as Qui-Gon had stood his ground, resolve and serenity apparent in every line of his body, as he had said, in a voice that was perfectly steady, "Be at ease, my padawan. There is no fear."_

_Obi-Wan had stopped, and looked at his Master's face, which he could only see in profile; then looked at the vision out of a nightmare stalking toward them, the length and sharpness of its twisted horns exceeded only by the mass and number of hirsute tentacles tipped with razor-like talons._

_"You're kidding - right?" The boy had managed to reply._

_"Not at all," had been the Master's response, still calm, still motionless. "There is no fear."_

_And the creature, at that moment, apparently deciding that it didn't much care for the defiance so flagrantly displayed in the Master's demeanor, had emitted an ear-splitting roar, and leapt forward with a speed unprecedented in so large a creature._

_And Obi-Wan had leapt as well, removing himself from the creature's path, pausing only long enough to make sure that his Master had finally discarded his Jedi serenity in favor of a healthy dose of self-preservation, and, as the creature had over-extended itself in its wild pursuit of the tiny beings that had dared to defy it, the padawan had murmured - very distinctly - "No fear, my ass!"_

_Moments later, Master and padawan had stood together on the lip of a deep, rugged crevasse into which the beast had plunged, and looked down in silence. The Master had never indicated that he had heard the padawan's pithy epithet; instead, he had suppressed the wry chuckle that had risen to his lips. It would not do to let the boy know how much he treasured that dry, droll sense of humor and the irreverence that were part and parcel of who Obi-Wan Kenobi was._

He had said nothing, and it had become another one of those unacknowledged memories, the ones that the Master found, for some reason, had become more precious to him than he had ever realized before.

It was time now to find out if he would ever be allowed to acquire more of them.

**************** ****************** ****************

He was standing at the end of a tiny spit of land, at the very edge of the tide's swell, his feet sinking into the moist softness of the sand, a small clay container clasped in his hands. The container was empty now, his brief, personal ceremony concluded, the only ritual observed played out only in his mind.

The water was parti-colored, streaked with jade and amethyst and pale turquoise, and splashed with the molten gold of a rising sun, while the heavens above were fading through shades of midnight and cerulean to azure and heliotrope, while the stars blazed bright in the last instant before fading.

He faced east, looking into the morning brilliance, but it wasn't the sun which mesmerized him so, and Qui-Gon was amazed to find that he, too, could see the vision which had transfixed his padawan.

_She was more beautiful than he had fully realized before, an exquisite sculpture of pure light, super-imposed over the chiaroscuro of the dappled morning - long hair, tumbling and curling wildly over creamy shoulders; a delicate, heart-shaped face, complete with widow's peak and slightly cleft chin; eyes of soft, melting gray - like summer rain, emphasized by long, thick lashes, sooty against the creaminess of poreless skin, with a tiny dusting of freckles across the bridge of a lovely, fragile nose and high, classical cheekbones; a long graceful throat topping a slender, sylph-like body, with firm, high breasts which only served to emphasize the tiny waist, the lovely flare of rounded hips and long, shapely legs. She wore only a twisted slip of a garment, which covered the essentials but left little to the imagination._

_She was radiant, and she was smiling with such a depth of overwhelming love in her eyes that it almost took the Master's breath away._

_He knew a moment of total contentment, in the knowledge that, whatever else his padawan might be required to endure in his lifetime, he would be one of the very few who were fortunate enough to know such a love, even if he was only allowed to reach for it as the last flutter of life flowed from his body._

_"Why, Saischel?" Obi-Wan was saying. "Why did you make them do it?"_

_Her smile deepened as she gazed at him, and, for a moment, it was as if she had not heard him. "So beautiful," she said, in a voice that wasn't really audible, but was, somehow, still perfectly clear. "Do you know how perfectly beautiful you are? Within - and without?"_

_"Don't . . ."_

_"Oomy did what she was meant to do, my love. She served the purpose we were meant to serve."_

_"I don't understand," he whispered, sinking to his knees in the shallow surf._

_"She protected you. That's what bondmates do, my Obi."_

_"But we . . ."_

_"She's the shadow of me, Obi," she said with infinite gentleness. "They took our bond from us, but they can never really keep us apart."_

_He looked up suddenly, and the pale liquid light of morning touched his face with radiance, and Qui-Gon's breath caught in his throat. By the Force, that there should be such beauty in the universe, as that which touched the two of them as they faced each other in the birth of day!_

_"I could go with you - now," Obi-Wan said softly. "We could be together, forever."_

_Pallid fingers, light infused, reached out to stroke his face. "It's not your time, Love. But, when it is, I'll still be here, and nothing will ever separate us again."_

_"How do I make it, until then?" he asked, his voice broken and raw, and Master Jinn felt the pain of it in his own heart._

_"Though you won't see me," she answered, "I'm always with you, my love. Always."_

_"How long?" he said, barely audible._

_But the image had begun to fade with the rising light._

_"Please," he cried, surging to his feet, "how long?"_

_"I love you," she assured him, barely louder than a whisper now, "and I don't know how long. But it won't matter at all, when the time comes. Our time - and our love for each other - will be unending."_

_And then there came a soft sound, the breath of a wind moving across the water, a ripple against the current, and the image faded to nothingness. Now there was only a slender, motionless figure, poised in the last wisps of pre-dawn, every line of his body speaking of loss and emptiness._

_Slowly, he collapsed once more to the sand, heedless of the tide swirling about his knees and the tears coursing down his face, heedless of everything beyond the boundaries of the heart that thundered within him, thundered so loudly that he doubted he would ever hear anything else so ponderous, so singular, in his entire life._

_Time passed - in fits and starts, it seemed - and he had no idea how long he knelt there, how long he wandered through the desolation of his innermost thoughts, before coming back to himself, back to the rush of gentle breakers that broke against him, wetting him now almost to his shoulders; back to the coarse grit of sand beneath his fingers and his knees; back to the rapidly growing warmth of glaring sunlight against his skin._

And back, finally, to the presence that waited at the edge of his consciousness; that had waited patiently throughout his exploration of his bleak musings. He was not ready for this, and he knew it, but there was no avoiding the moment. What had been awaiting him throughout this long journey into darkness was at hand, and he must face it without further delay.

With a sigh expressing inestimable weariness, Obi-Wan rose and walked out of the water, his eyes fixed on the Jedi Master who stood motionless atop a small dune, as timeless, as eternal, as changeless, as the tides still rushing in toward the shore.

"Are you ready, Obi-Wan?" The deep, rich baritone was as steady and devoid of passion as ever, but there was the barest trace of something more, something that might have been the warmth of sympathy - or might not.

"No," replied the youth, "but I doubt that's going to change anything."

The Master nodded. "You're right; it's not. I would like to be able to afford you the luxury of ample time to examine your options, but I can't. It's said that time and tide wait for no man, and the same is true of the Jedi. You know as well as I that we are too few, and spread too thin, to allow for leisurely decisions."

Obi-Wan nodded and settled himself into a sandy depression, his back cushioned against a small hillock. "Very well, Master Jinn. You asked to be allowed to speak before I made up my mind. Now's your chance."

Qui-Gon debated whether or not to remain standing, thus retaining some small psychological advantage over the seated youth, but he decided abruptly that he wanted no such artifice in the exchange between them. The time had come to put aside all but the essentials, to burn away the superfluous trivia that had been allowed to clutter their lives and to see each other without impediments to complete clarity.

The Master seated himself and even went so far as to stretch his long legs out and to lean back on his elbows while he studied the expression of his long-time apprentice.

Obi-Wan was marginally surprised by Qui-Gon's first remark. "I suspect, my padawan, that there are few among us who will have so much to look forward to in our final passage into the Force."

The young man was silent, waiting with surprising patience.

"I'm sorry that you've been cheated out of the lifemate who was meant for you," and the tone of truth and understanding was completely genuine and unmistakable.

Obi-Wan sighed. "You may hold yourself responsible for many things, Master Jinn, but you can hardly blame yourself for N'Vell Aji and her bloody conspiracies."

"Can't I? Do you really think she would have gone to such great efforts, if I hadn't killed her brother?"

"As I recall," replied the youth, "you didn't kill him alone, and I'd have probably been quite dead if you hadn't, so the question is somewhat moot, don't you think?"

Qui-Gon smiled, and a great, generous warmth swelled in his eyes. "Are you going to argue with everything I say?"

And Obi-Wan, much to his surprise, was startled into a small chuckle. "Why should today be any different?"

He sobered instantly when he caught the faintest catch in the Master's breathing.

"It is different, Padawan," said Qui-Gon softly, using the title very deliberately, "because there can no longer be uncertainty between us, nor delusion. No more secrets; no more clever repartee designed to camouflage truths we dare not name. Today, we name them."

Obi-Wan seemed almost to gather himself, as he straightened and looked into the Master's eyes. "I don't think I have any nameless truths, Master."

"No?" Qui-Gon smiled thinly. "Perhaps you don't. Perhaps they're all mine."

The Master shifted slightly and gazed out over the glittering expanse of the sea, finding unexpectedly that he was just slightly discomfited by the intensity of the regard of those sea-change eyes. "Do you remember what you said to me about the meaning of the term, padawan?"

Obi-Wan nodded. "That you used it like a generic title."

"You're familiar, of course, with the Jedi Code; you memorized it as a very young initiate, and you've meditated on it every day of your life. But did you know that there is another part of the Code - a codicil, if you will - which is not revealed to initiates or padawans, or even to knights. Not until they take a padawan, that is."

Obi-Wan was thoughtful. "I never thought about it, but it stands to reason that there are regulations and requirements for Masters that would not apply to lower ranks."

"Yes, but that would hardly justify the confidence in which the additional code is held."

Obi-Wan rolled to his stomach, and gazed up at Qui-Gon's face. "Are you saying there's something sinister about this Masters' Code?"

"No, not sinister. Nothing to be ashamed of, but not something to be spoken of by the uninitiated either." He paused, considering his words carefully. "I don't know that it's ever been explained to a padawan, but I'm going to explain it to you. Because you've earned it, Obi-Wan, and because I've not only broken a cardinal rule of this code; I've shattered it beyond repair."

Despite his original intention to listen politely but without offering encouragement, Obi-Wan found his curiosity piqued. "Breaking the code isn't really anything new for you, Master."

And Qui-Gon chuckled softly. "You're being discreet, Padawan. There are those who claim I observe it more in the breaking than the keeping. But I think you know me well enough to know that, while I may seem to break it with great relish, I don't so much break it as disagree on its meaning, and . . . bend it accordingly. But that isn't the case here. In this instance, I freely admit to breaking it, quite deliberately."

His voice grew softer, less focused. "The Master/padawan relationship is unique, Obi-Wan, completely unlike any other relationship. It is not a parent/child commitment, nor a teacher/student, nor a priest/acolyte, though it has elements of all these things, but it is very strictly controlled and structured, in order to foster the greatest benefit for the knighthood."

He turned to look sharply at the youth. "Remember that! For the benefit of the knighthood. It's important."

"You're saying," mused Obi-Wan, "that the individuals are less important than the institution."

Reluctantly, Qui-Gon nodded. "Unfortunately, yes. The purpose of the knighthood and its perpetuation are primary to the relationship. Or, at least, that's the way it's supposed to be."

He sighed. "The reality is usually quite different, much to the chagrin of most of the Council."

"I don't understand what you're trying to tell me."

Qui-Gon leaned forward, and stared into the youth's eyes. "Do you know the true meaning of the word, padawan?"

"No, I don't think anyone ever mentioned it."

"It's from an ancient Alderaanian language - pre-Republic. It translates, roughly, to heartchild. The term was already in use, long before the current code was written. If it hadn't been, I assure you it never would have been chosen for use."

"Why not?"

Master Jinn sighed. "Because I'm not supposed to love you, Obi-Wan. No Master is supposed to love his padawan. Not in any way at all. Not as a son, or a brother, or a companion. Not in any way at all."

"But . . "

"Think about it, Padawan. How difficult is it, do you suppose, to send someone you love into terrible danger, to expose a loved one to great peril, to disease or pestilence, to war and violence, to natural disasters, and to all the horrors to which sentient beings manage to subject each other? If I love you, how can I teach you about these things? How can I put the purpose of the mission and the honor of the Jedi above your care and well-being, if I allow myself to love you?"

Obi-Wan looked stunned, as if entertaining thoughts completely alien to him. "I don't know, Master."

Qui-Gon closed his eyes, and rubbed the back of a hand across his brow, as if to dispel a monstrous headache. "I do it, Obi-Wan, because I have learned how to separate my feelings for you from my duties as a Jedi; I do it, because I must. But I do not do it, because I don't love you. I do love you, more than you can possibly imagine, and I break the Masters' Code every single day, because of it."

"But how can the Council forbid it, Master? Are we expected to grow up without ever having been loved, by anyone?"

Qui-Gon smiled. "In an ideal universe, all children would be loved, by all adults, and I suppose there would be no need for individual attachments. But we don't live in a perfect world, and I can't speak for all Jedi Masters. Only myself, and those few I call friends. And I will tell you this. The only truly successful Master/padawan bonds are achieved where there is love between the partners. Like ours, Padawan."

He reached out then, and caught Obi-Wan's hand in the grip of his blunt fingers. "I know I have wronged you most grievously, Padawan Mine. And I know that such a betrayal is virtually unforgiveable. Nevertheless, I am pleading for your forgiveness. 

"I could give you an entire list of logical reasons, reasons why you should return to the Jedi, and they'd be entirely valid, but the truth of it is much simpler than all those elegant reasons. The truth of it is that I love you, Padawan, as the child that I never had. And that without you, I find I have no interest in continuing the lifestyle I've lived up until this moment."

And that, at least, did snare the boy's attention. "You'd give up your life as a Jedi? For me?"

"Why does that surprise you so? Our lives have been so completely joined for so many years; why would you think I'd have any desire to continue without you?"

Obi-Wan's eyes narrowed. "But that's not all, is it?"

And now there was no mistaking the Master's unwillingness to face his apprentice. "No, that's not all."

Obi-Wan reached down and gathered a handful of sand, and allowed the shimmering crystals to pour through his fingers. "Why do I feel that my whole life is about to come crashing down around my ears?" he asked in a small, poignant voice.

"Maybe because you're about to hear one of those nameless truths, the one that I've hidden deep inside me, ever since the first time I called you 'Padawan'." 

Dark shadows moved now, within his eyes, and there was a shallow quality in his voice, as if breath was suddenly hard to come by. "You know about Xanatos, Obi-Wan, but you don't know it all. Nobody knows it all, because I've never told anyone. I never told anyone how desperate I was to avoid experiencing that kind of pain again. When you came to me, when you were so bright in the Force, and so strong and eager and so determined to batter through my shields and touch my heart . . . Obi-Wan, you scared the life out of me. You made me realize how vulnerable I was, and every time I let you get close, I had to remind myself of the price I'd paid the last time I let someone get close. I found that I simply could not take that risk again."

He forced himself to look up and meet Obi-Wan's eyes squarely. "I needed a cut-off valve, a control switch to use, to make sure that such a thing would never happen with you. And you, my Obi-Wan, you gave me what I needed. You provided the weapon for me to use against you. 

"Because of the circumstances of our union and some residual insecurities left over from your childhood, you displayed a tendency for self-doubt, for assuming guilt, even when none should have attached to you."

Obi-Wan nodded. "My weakness," he agreed, sounding weary of an admission made too frequently over the years.

"Which was, at that time, just a minor character trait, which you would have and should have outgrown, within a very short time, a trait very common to adolescents. Only you didn't outgrow it; you couldn't, because I wouldn't let you."

The Master paused, and Obi-Wan sensed that the crucial moment was at hand. 

"I deliberately embroidered and improved on it," said Qui-Gon. "And I provided all the impetus required to make it grow and flourish, so I could use it against you. It became a perfect means of control. If you ever gave me cause for concern, if I ever thought you were treading a bit too close to the line of insolence or disobedience or even questioning my judgment a bit too much, I simply pulled the right string, and slapped you firmly back in your place."

He stopped suddenly, as if appalled by his own admission, and it was several moments before he could bring himself to continue.

"All those times," he said when Obi-Wan remained silent, "when you were so young, when things had not worked out well, when you thought you had concealed your feelings of unworthiness and crawled into your bed to cry yourself to sleep; all those times, when you thought I didn't know, when you trembled for fear of being sent away and you blamed yourself for every mishap; I always knew, Obi-Wan. Always. And I'd lie in my bed and feel the misery bleeding around the edges of your shielding, and I'd harden my heart and tell myself that I was doing as the Code demanded, that it was the only way to train you and to bind you to the light."

Suddenly, the Master sat forward and shuddered as he forced himself to meet the intensity of Obi-Wan's gaze. "It was never your fault. Never. You were - you are - the perfect padawan, and I will never forgive myself for what I did to you."

There was a sudden flare of pure rage in the depths of the youth's eyes, and that, at least, the Master felt he could deal with, could understand and accept, even though he was not sanguine about it, but beneath and around the rage swirled another emotion - deeper, darker, richer; Obi-Wan was wounded, wounded to the core of his soul, and could not resolve his pain to his concept of the person he had always believed his Master to be.

"Do you realize that I've had to fight off feelings of guilt and inadequacy for my whole life?" asked Obi-Wan. "Do you have any idea how much it . . ."

"Obi-Wan, I . . ."

And the apprentice leapt to his feet and screamed into the morning. "It hurt, Master. It always hurt. Every single time. Every time I thought I failed you. Every time I thought it was my fault that things turned out badly. Every single time, it was agony. How could you do that to me? How could you?"

And he threw himself forward, crashing into Qui-Gon's reclining body, and propelling both of them down the face of the dune in a cartwheeling tumble, with his hands closing around the throat of his mentor with the strength born of desperation and mindless fury.

"How could you?" he continued to demand, as they rolled to a stop at the edge of the surf with Obi-Wan winding up sitting astride his Master, his fingers tightening inexorably.

Qui-Gon simply looked up at him, making no effort to loosen the punishing grip.

In spite of the pressure on his throat, he found the strength to whisper. "Because I couldn't lose you. Because I needed you too much. Because - despite everything - I grew to love you."

Obi-Wan felt tears start in his eyes and abruptly released his death grip and shifted himself to rise to his feet. But Qui-Gon was not prepared to allow him to back away now. The moment was now; the moment when a choice would be made that would decide the course of their personal history. With rough grace, the Master clasped the apprentice's arms with bruising strength.

"No," he said hoarsely, "you won't run from me again. We settle this, today. Right now. If you hate me so deeply, if you cannot find it in your heart to understand what I have done, I will accept it. Not easily, but I will. But you must face it all, Obi-Wan. You must know what you renounce."

Obi-Wan looked mutinous, but he was still listening.

"I have no gift of prophecy," continued the Master. "You know this. But I am told, by a very reliable - ultimately the most reliable - source, that your hands will hold the ultimate fate of the Jedi, that you will be the light which survives a great darkness which lies ahead of us. I am told that I must make certain that you understand that the Jedi need for you is much greater than your need for the Jedi."

"In addition, you must understand this; examine this. There are two separate, personal truths here, and you must explore them both. There is my feeling for you, my need for you, and my love for you, and there are no words to show you the depth of those feelings or the price I would gladly pay to be able to change the past, to take back what I did to you and to repair the damage I have done. I know that no mere words will serve to make it right, to heal you, and the rift between us. The only explanation I have is miserably inadequate, and it is simply that I never realized what I was doing to you. There is no fool like a self-deluded fool, and that's what I was. I convinced myself that I did what I did in order to save you, when the one who really needed saving . . . was me.

"If you are unable to forgive me, unable to let this betrayal fall away into the past, I can't and won't blame you, for I know full well that there may be no cure for the wounds I inflicted on you. But there is a second truth here, which is, in the final analysis, even more important than the first, and that is the truth of what you have always wanted, Obi-Wan. Your whole life, all you've worked for, all you've striven for, all you've sacrificed everything for, was to become a Jedi knight. I will accept your rejection of me and everything I mean to you, but I cannot accept that you have willingly abandoned the desire that has driven you all your life. Your dream is not lost, Padawan; it may be that this is the only gift I have left to give you, the only one you might be willing to accept, but I promise you, if you still want to fulfill your dream of knighthood, I can make it so. With my intervention, your strength in the Force, and the willing participation of a new Master, a new training bond can be forged - as strong and deep as the one we shared. It will take some time and patience, but it can be done."

He sighed softly, and a soft sweep of pale morning light was reflected against the midnight depth of his eyes. "I am begging you, Padawan; do not let my foolishness take your dream away from you. You were meant to be a Jedi knight. Please, come home with me, or, if not with me, just come home. Back to where you belong."

And the tears in the boy's eyes swelled again, and his jaw clenched in desperation. "I'm no Jedi, Master Jinn," he gasped, pain clutching at his heart. "Do you know what I did? Does Master Yoda know? I used the Force to . . . I killed with it, Master. A child. I killed a child, through the Force."

And it was suddenly as if all his strength deserted him, and he collapsed like a puppet, suddenly stringless, and allowed himself to be held and cradled against his Master's chest.

"Oh, Obi-Wan," whispered Qui-Gon, his hands stroking broad circles on his padawan's back, attempting to ease the knotted muscles he sensed there, "what have we done to you? What have we all done to you, that you could fault yourself for giving the only gift you had to give, for offering all that you are, for the sake of an innocent child. How can you believe that anyone could fault you for that?"

They sat there at the water's edge for hours, as the sun forged its path through a saffron sky, and the gentle warmth of a spring day closed in around them. As the morning wore on, the young Jedi was gradually purged of great draughts of bitterness and pain, of old hurts and new terrors. Sometimes he wept; sometimes he shouted; occasionally he merely closed his eyes and let the desolation pass through him. And through it all, the Master simply held him, bathing him in a great, unconditional tide of love and acceptance.

Finally, as the first streaks of soft peach and jade appeared against the horizon, and the first songs of the nightbirds rose to sweeten the air with their delicate harmony, Master Qui-Gon rose, painfully aware of the stiffness of joints and muscles after so many hours on his knees, and lifted his apprentice to his feet. The youth had been silent for the past hour, and appeared now more exhausted, more drained than anything else, and Qui-Gon was uncertain how to interpret the expression on his face. His mental shields - amazingly strong even when he had been a child - were virtually impenetrable now, even to the attempted incursion of a Master, unless said Master were willing to bring his full power to bear. Qui-Gon would not risk that; he had done quite enough damage to this fine young mind to last a lifetime. He would risk nothing more.

"Obi-Wan?" The Master stood very still - very tall - wrapped in his own unique variety of dignity. Judgment was at hand, and he would accept it with grace and without a single indication of the pain it might engender, even if it killed him. If it did, it would have to kill him later; he would not allow Obi-Wan to see it, to feel the responsibility for the pain. 

Obi-Wan turned to peer out into the growing twilight, his profile softened somehow against the lavender gloom of dusk. "What do you expect of me, Master?"

Qui-Gon sighed. "I expect nothing, Padawan. And all I can ask of you is justice."

"Justice," echoed the youth. "A strange word for what lies between us, don't you think? Can there ever be justice between us?"

"No, you're right. I can't undo anything, Obi-Wan, and I can't repay it."

"I don't want justice." It was the first time he had spoken with such certainty since their long day had begun.

Qui-Gon nodded, feeling the terrible dread rise within him. "Then tell me what you do want, Obi-Wan. Whatever it is, I will abide by it. I swear it."

The apprentice looked up sharply, and the slant of dying sunlight bathed his face in a wash of gold. "Even if I decide to walk away, from you, from the Jedi, from everything. You'll accept it?"

The Master almost managed to conceal the sharp catch of breath in his throat, but he nodded finally, no matter how great the cost.

Obi-Wan turned and moved away from the water, away from the dying sun, away from the memory of the woman whose ashes he had scattered over the soft winds caressing this land of primitive beauty.

"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon called after him, uncertain now, near panic.

The boy stopped and turned back, and the Master thought he would never forget what he read in the depths of those luminous eyes. Something had died within his apprentice; it wasn't just sleeping, or hiding, or waiting. It was gone.

"I want to go home," said Obi-Wan finally, softly, exhaustion lingering around him like a shroud. "I just want to go home."

It was not the ringing endorsement the Master had hoped for; nor was it the resounding declaration of renewed purpose and dedication that he had sought. It was neither surrender, nor victory; it was simply a cease-fire. The battle had neither been won nor lost; the primary combatant had merely decided not to fight, not out of a lack of conviction, nor a concession to the rightness of the opposition. He had laid down his arms because he lacked the energy to continue.

Nothing had been won or conceded, but time. Time to heal the wounds; time to seek forgiveness, whether merited or not, and Qui-Gon was suddenly reminded of the sonorous words of a Drimulan priest; Obi-Wan would forgive his Master, the man had claimed, because it was his nature to do so.

Master Jinn sighed, and chose to ignore the remainder of what the priest had said.

Rather, he moved swiftly to enclose the youth in strong, steady, supporting arms. "And what of us? What of . . "

"I wish no other Master," answered the younger Jedi in a voice devoid of inflection. "We will find our way through this."

"Together?" asked the Master, barely able to voice the word.

"Together."

And, for just a moment, it was the Master who required a little additional support, as his knees seemed in danger of imminent collapse. With uncharacteristic awkwardness, he pulled the boy into his embrace and tried to speak coherently. "I'll never leave you again, Padawan," he said hoarsely. "I swear it. And I'll never let anyone hurt you."

They stood together for a while, regaining their composure, and it was probably fortunate for the Master that, during those moments, he could not see his apprentice's face, for he would not have been comforted by the shadows that moved in the depths of those sea-change eyes, shadows of something bleak and lost and bruised, as the boy hesitantly brought his hands up to clasp the elder Jedi's shoulders. He would say nothing, for it would ultimately serve no purpose, but the simple truth was that the 'short and green' troll was not the only prophet among the Jedi.

It was not a particularly rare gift, and Obi-Wan had known he had an affinity for it since he had been very young. In fact, it had been Master Yoda himself who had taught him how to grasp it and understand it.

So he had known all along, and knew with even greater certainty at the moment that his Master had spoken those words, those 'famous last words'.

"I'll never leave you again."

As sincerely as it was meant, it would ultimately prove to be the biggest lie of all.

**************** ******************** *****************  
tbc


	40. Epilogue:  The Only Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus we reach the end of our story - and the place where Alternate Universe takes on its true meaning. My thanks for those who chose to follow it to its unavoidable conclusion, and my apologies to those to whom the original plot is a sacrosanct classic, not to be trifled with.

EPILOGUE - The Only Truth 

_And so you see I have come to doubt_  
_All that I once held as true._  
_I stand alone without beliefs_  
_The only truth I know is you._

_And as I watch the drops of rain_  
_Weave their weary paths and die,_  
_I know that I am like the rain_  
_There but for the grace of you go I._

\--- _Cathy's Song_ \- Paul Simon

He barely noticed the chill in the barren little compartment; it was hardly worthy of thought, especially when compared to the chill that was coiled somewhere in the well of his being, the chill that was growing in size and intensity with every passing hour - the very same chill that had dwelled within him for all these years, quiescent and patient and barely noticeable, waiting for the catalyst that would draw it from its concealment and set it on its rampant path toward its ultimate destination, the domination of all else within him. It was drawing ever closer, and soon there would be nothing else, nothing but the chill, wrapped solidly, seamlessly, around the knowledge at its core.

He shifted slightly, absently tucking his hands deeper into the sleeves of his robe, in a completely unconscious mimicry of the man who had shaped and directed his entire life, until a few hours ago. He hoped - and believed - that he had assumed some modicum of control over that direction quite some time ago, or, if not, that the inertia of his prior course would suffice to take him where he needed to go.

His eyes, shadow-filled and bleak, were unfocused, and seemed bruised somehow, as if he should not have been able to hold them open. Yet, he seldom blinked, so lost was he in his thoughts.

Five years - that's how long they had had. Five years - a mixed bag of good and bad, he supposed. But mostly good, when all was said and done.

Five years since he had relinquished his tentative hold on the new life he had built for himself, away from the Temple, and allowed his Master to escort him home.

He sat in the heavy silence and tried to figure out if it had all been worth it.

He allowed himself to relax somewhat as he sifted through his memories. At first, when he had closeted himself here in this little droid storage bay, he had been almost paranoid about maintaining his shielding; about preventing his Master from slipping through his mental barriers; a concern which, he had discovered after a while, was completely groundless.

Qui-Gon was pre-occupied elsewhere, or rather, else-who.

Obi-Wan refused to allow himself so much as a sigh, as he felt that cold clamminess surge within him again.

He had known throughout those years that this day would come, and had even sensed, of late, that it was drawing closer. So, he thought with a wry little smile, it should not have surprised him so, should not have flared from quietude into incandescence in the space of a heartbeat, at the instant his hand had been gripped by small fingers, as he had looked down to meet crystalline blue eyes beneath a mop of straw-colored hair. Until that moment, he had not known the exact particulars of how it would happen: the when or the where or the who, but he had known it was inevitable. That had never been in question.

"You're a Jedi too?" The boy had asked, all wide-eyed innocence and beautiful naiveté, and Obi-Wan had managed, somehow, not to allow the smile on his face to transform into a grimace of pure horror.

He had risen and walked away from that moment, had managed to continue to function in a manner that assured that no one would look too hard at the pale glimmer in his eyes or the vertical lines that formed on his forehead. Had walked and talked and responded when questioned, had smiled as warranted and frowned at the appropriate moments, all within normal parameters, which he found marginally amusing. That one should be able to mimic life so perfectly was odd, to say the least, when there was only death within the shell of the body.

It was a blessing, he told himself repeatedly; a blessing that his Master was so completely distracted - so focused elsewhere - that there would be no opportunity for him to question the chaos swirling just beneath Obi-Wan's surface serenity. Even with the spectacular shielding abilities that the apprentice had cultivated over the years, it would have been impossible to conceal this degree of turmoil from a Master's Force probe.

But Qui-Gon would not probe, not tonight and not ever. Once or twice during the early stages of the flight, there had been a fleeting sense of curiosity, a swift impression that the Master had spared a moment to wonder where the padawan had wandered off to, but the thoughts had been only half-formed and abandoned before flowering into sufficient interest to warrant further investigation.

The bright presence in the elder Jedi's mind, the intensity which was his padawan, had paled and softened and faded to a whisper - barely perceived.

The padawan had stood silent and motionless in the Council chamber, knowing that his life in the light was about to end, but not knowing exactly how it would happen; in some ways, he found that the unkindest cut of all, that he should have been shown that it would happen, but not been warned how to gird himself against the horrible pain of it.

_"I take Anakin as my padawan learner."_

Seven words seemed very little with which to destroy a life, but they had served well enough, and, for a single moment of pure, unvarnished clarity, Obi-Wan had touched his Master's consciousness and seen what would only be visible for that single moment; before Qui-Gon buried it so deeply and so well that he would never again be forced to acknowledge its existence. It was gone, but nothing would ever change the fact that it had existed, and Obi-Wan had seen it. For one clear shining moment, his Master had known what he was doing; had known that he was shattering the vow that he had sworn all those years ago.

The pledge had become the greatest lie. Once more, and for the last time, he had left Obi-Wan behind. His reasons were undoubtedly valid, from his perspective; he believed absolutely that he had no choice, and that no guilt should attach to him for his actions.

Except for that one moment, that one stray thought that said, _They were right. They said I'd abandon him again - and I did._

And, Force, had it hurt! thought the apprentice, the apprentice who would soon be no apprentice at all. Despite being ready for it; despite knowing, for all these years, that it was inevitable; even despite knowing that it was necessary to what must happen next, it still hurt beyond any pain he had ever known.

But he had allowed none of it to bleed through his shielding. For what he must do now, he could not afford the slightest nuance of the turmoil that gripped him to be broadcast to anyone else.

He decided finally, that he was grateful for the five-year interim, and he hoped that his Master would be grateful as well, once he had time to reflect on it. 

They had not been able to reconstruct their previous existence exactly, following their Drimulan experience. The events that had happened between and around them had made them different people, too different to simply step back into their lives, but they had adapted fairly well.

Qui-Gon had become a kinder, gentler Master, more attentive, more affectionate, more approving; he had even managed to dismantle some measure of the emotional shielding that he had maintained for the better part of his life, to open himself up to allow his padawan to access the uppermost layers of his consciousness. In addition, he had forced himself to become more verbally communicative, speaking of things that he once would have ignored or suppressed, discussing concerns and questions, rather than pondering in solitude.

He had even begun to show a small tendency to reminisce, to attempt to share memories that would unite the two of them more closely, and to elicit Obi-Wan's observations on events that had conspired to change the nature of their relationship; even - to some degree - the events that occurred during their Drimulan experience. He had gone so far, on a few occasions, as to mention the nature of their responses to what had happened there, and to each other.

On one occasion, with a smile that was not quite as relaxed and natural as it might first have appeared, he had mentioned that he had feared, at first, that Obi-Wan had lost some part of himself during those fateful days, some part that he would never recover.

After an infinitesimal pause, Obi-Wan had simply returned the smile and remarked that Qui-Gon had simply been struck with a flight of fancy - without validity - and dropped the subject, rather abruptly.

But they had both known the truth of it, even if it had not been acknowledged. The padawan had, indeed, lost something that he would never recover; he had lost, ultimately, the ability to believe; he had lost his faith in the possibility of dreams coming true.

While Qui-Gon had become more relaxed and comfortable within himself over the years, Obi-Wan had changed as well, though the changes were subtler and, sometimes, difficult to differentiate from those that occurred naturally as he left his childhood behind him. He grew quieter and more pensive, more inclined to introspection and contemplative silences. His friends remarked that he laughed less and grew more subdued, as his wit grew somewhat sharper and dryer.

Yet he was not unhappy, not exactly. He seemed content to accept whatever life and fortune bestowed upon him, and he lost none of his warmth or generosity, none of his capacity for caring or understanding, and none of the charm that endeared him to friends and acquaintances.

He also lost none of his capacity for bottomless guilt. He had accepted Qui-Gon's revelation concerning the Master's role in creating and perpetuating that tendency; intellectually, he knew it to be true, but it was far too late to change the patterns that had been bred into him. Though he always knew that his reactions to failure, his own or others, were irrational, he never succeeded in changing them.

It was a factor of his existence, far too ingrained to be rooted out and discarded at this late date.

It had been a tremendously productive time period for him - those five years - in the sense that he had come into the fullness of his Jedi abilities. Though he knew Qui-Gon had exaggerated his status in his statement to the Council, for the sake of convenience, he also knew that he was very close to being ready for his trials. He still had some difficulty in grasping the Living Force, and allowing himself to be guided by it, but his gifts in the Unifying Force were truly astonishing, almost, as he had been told by the tiny troll himself, as great as Master Yoda's.

Which was the reason, of course, that he was here on this endless night, locked away from the warm bodies of his companions, lost in a reverie of prophecy - a reverie more intense, more emphatic, for being unshared, except, of course, for the one sharing, which he had been unable to avoid.

He had thought it undetected, had thought it unknown to any except himself, but had realized immediately, at the appearance of the ancient Master, that he had been foolish and arrogant to believe so.

He had believed himself absolved from the necessity to say good-bye. Master Yoda had quickly disabused him of that misconception.

"Run from me, will you, young one?" The eldest of the Jedi had stood, braced on his stick, and peered up into the padawan's face with wide, solemn eyes. "Intend to keep it all to yourself, do you?'

Obi-Wan had nodded. "Better this way, don't you think?"

"Better for whom?"

The apprentice had not responded, but there had been no need anyway. They both knew who it was that the boy sought to spare. There would be pain enough to go around; by mutual but unspoken consent, the two agreed that there was little point in inflicting any more.

"Sure, are you? Another choice, there is; the choice as originally offered."

And Obi-Wan had smiled, ignoring the sting in his eyes. "Don't tell me you intend to try to talk me out of it, Master. We both know that would be foolish and futile. This is the only way."

And Yoda had simply nodded, and gestured for the boy to kneel. "A Jedi knight, you will be, young one. This is my promise to you. Deserve it above all others, you will."

Obi-Wan had knelt there and lowered his head, and felt the Master touch him gently. "The Force will be with you, always."

It was benediction - and farewell.

It was the only good-bye he would be allowed.

As the padawan's skills and abilities had grown during the years since Drimula, so had his gift for prophecy. He had known, with no doubt possible, that the time would come when his Master would forsake him for another; it was this that had prompted him to learn as much as he could, as quickly as he could, so that, when the time came, he would be ready; his knighthood would not be forfeit.

But then the dreams had begun - vivid dreams, stinging with bright, unmistakable reality. Dreams of a child with brilliant blue eyes and a mop of bright golden hair, with unbelievable Jedi skills and power; dreams of a creature of the darkness, a vicious image of scarlet and black, and images of death and tragedy. As time passed, the dreams took on more and more detail, and marched inexorably toward their unavoidable end.

It had taken over a year for them to reach their logical conclusion; he was almost twenty-two the first time he was forced to stand helplessly by and watch his Master die at the hands of the malevolent beast. And the guilt almost crippled him, even though it was, presently, only a dream.

But he knew better, had always known better. It was not a dream; it was a vision.

It plagued his sleep, and sometimes, even his meditation, for months, until he could stand it no more.

He realized that he needed help, needed a strong Force presence to guide him through the miasma of uncertainty in which he found himself, and knew, beyond all doubt, that he could not take this problem to his Master. He never questioned that certainty, knowing somehow that the conviction had been provided by the Force, even as it appeared to evade his quest for greater clarity. There was, however, no lack of clarity in deciding from whom to seek help.

Yoda, as it turned out, had been expecting him, and the padawan wondered briefly why he hadn't given in sooner and come to the ancient Master for help in the beginning.

The answer to that question was forthcoming almost immediately; there was no help to be had, except for the assurance that "Always in motion, is the future."

Obi-Wan had found it, initially, to be cold comfort.

Six months later, he had learned better, when the visions, which still assaulted him nightly, began to change, to alter, to vary in subtle details.

More months passed, until he finally realized what he was seeing, what was being presented to him.

A prophecy, to be sure; a true vision of what the future would bring. But with one, small difference - one variation on the theme of most prophecies.

A true vision, with a single, built-in inconsistency.

A choice.

The prophecy would be fulfilled; of that he had no doubt. Nor did the only other person to share his visions; Master Yoda had finally, reluctantly, confirmed what the apprentice had figured out for himself.

One vision. One prophecy. Two different consequences.

One choice.

As originally prophesied, Qui-Gon Jinn would die, leaving his apprentice to take on the responsibility for training the golden-haired child, and from that pivotal beginning would come chaos and darkness and death, redeemable only after decades of war and horror and terrible suffering.

The other ending was simpler; Qui-Gon Jinn would survive, to follow his convictions for training Anakin, and for bringing balance to the Force. Chaos might be averted; darkness might not fall. It was not a certainty, but it was, at least, a chance for the preservation of the Light.

Obi-Wan rose abruptly, and walked forward in the small compartment until he could just peek out through a porthole, to catch a glimpse of the disorienting chaos of hyperspace. He had forgotten about the chill that touched his body, and he never noticed the trail of tears that touched his face.

Very carefully, he stretched out through the Force and felt, with a ghostly touch too gentle to be noticed, that his Master had retired for the night, with the child, Anakin, cuddled beside him. Qui-Gon was wrapped in his characteristic serenity, and, for a moment, Obi-Wan was tempted to send him a soft message, an apology for the words he had allowed himself to utter as they had stood on the landing platform, waiting for departure. He had not meant to speak, and had regretted doing so the moment the words were said, but it had been too late to recall them.

In the end, he dared not take the risk. The temptation to send that one final message, that final assurance that all was forever forgiven, was too great. What had been said between them, through all the years, would have to be enough.

So the final exchange between them, before stepping into this nexus of fate, would be harsh and strident, unless he made some gesture tomorrow, some concession to allow Qui-Gon to erase that last bitter taste. 

He almost smiled. One more apology didn't seem too great a price to pay. One, among so many.

And there would, after all, be no more.

He thought about meditating, but decided otherwise. There was little else he wished to say to the Force, and it had already said more than enough to him.

Tomorrow, for its own reasons, which it only rarely chose to reveal, the Force required the sacrifice of a life; one life, in lieu of thousands - or hundreds of thousands - or millions.

He would give it one.

He had made his plans with great care, going over it in his mind a thousand times, memorizing the choreography of the duel so completely that his body would know, automatically, when to move and when to be still, when to feint and when to fall away, when to leap forward and when to sidestep. And when to avoid the blow that would, if he allowed it, send him plunging to a lower level, from which he would never be able to rejoin the battle in time to prevent the unthinkable. 

In addition, he had accessed the data terminal files on the Theed power station, files that included the blueprints and technological read-outs on the facility; files that provided the location of emergency control panels for disengaging the security laser screens that surrounded the primary power core.

There would be no scintillant walls of light to bar his path during that final battle.

His preparations were complete.

Over a year before, in gathering material for a class he was teaching in sociological history, he had discovered an ancient, dusty textbook, housed in the oldest section of the Jedi archives. Within its stained and fading pages, he had found a passage in a philosophical treatise that had haunted him for months after he had read it. He had only recently come to understand why.

_Fate is never too generous - even to its favorites. Rarely do the gods grant a mortal more than one immortal deed.*_

He repeated it to himself now and sank to his knees, wearier than he had ever been in his life, and very cold, and finding, ultimately, that he really didn't mind so much what destiny had in store for him, reminded suddenly of a place where there was nothing but warmth and beauty and peace and - finally - a love such as he had never known.

He felt, somehow, very fortunate, in the knowledge that, for most, such an opportunity would never arise.

Tomorrow, Force willing, he would perform his one immortal deed.

******************** FINIS ***********************

 _*Stellar Moments in Human History_ \-- Stefan Zweig


End file.
